






. •TJGTW* ^M I 




m 
HI 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



COMPLETE EDITION. 



ionium : 
MACMILLAN AND CO. 

1873- 






A 





LONDON i 


R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS- 


BREAD 


STREET HILL. 




Gift 


Mrs. 


Ada Splnks 


Aug. 


±6 1934 




• 
• • • 

• • « 
••* 



V 



TO 



GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, 



THIS FIRST COMPLETE EDITION OF MY POEMS 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



CONTENTS. 



Miscellaneous Poems. page 

Threnodia ........ . . . . . i 

The Sirens 2 

Irene • • • 3 

Serenade ••• 5 

With a Pressed Flower 5 

The Beggar 5 

My Love ....• . . 6 

Summer Storm .........*. 7 

Love . . * 8 

To Perdita, Singing . . . . : 9 

The Moon . zo 

Remembered Music • 10 

Song • . n 

Allegra .... 11 

The Fountain 11 

Ode 12 

The Fatherland 15 

The Forlorn 15 

Midnight 16 

A Prayer 16 

The Heritage 17 

The Rose : A Ballad 17 

A Legend of Brittany . ♦ 18 

Prometheus 30 

Song . 36 

Rosaline 37 

The Shepherd of King Admetus . . 38 

The Token 38 

An Incident in a Railroad Car . . . 39 

Rhoecus 40 

The Falcon 42 

Trial 43 

A Requiem . . . • • >43 

A Parable . 44 

A Glance behind the Curtain 44 

Song 50 



CONTENTS. 



A Chippewa Legend ... 50 

Stanzas on Freedom 5a 

Columbus 53 

An Incident of the Fire at Hamburg 57 

The Sower 58 

Hunger and Cold 59 

The Landlord 60 

To a Pine-Tree 60 

Si Descendero in Infernum, Ades 61 

To the Past . . . 62 

To the Future 62 

Hebe : . 64 

The Search 64 

The Present Crisis . . . 65 

An Indian-Summer Reverie 67 

The Growth of the Legend 73 

A Contrast . . . . 74 

Extreme Unction N 74 

The'Oak' .'.*.. ...... . . .75 

Ambrdse .* . . . . . . . .* . . . . 76 

Above and Below * . ' . ' . ' . ' . . . . . . .77 

The Captive . / . . .'.....*. 78 

The^Birch-Tree .... . 79 



An Interview with Miles Standish 
On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington 
To the Dandelion 
The Ghost-Seer . J . ' . * . 
Studies for two Heads 
'On a Portrait 6f Dante, by Giotto 
Cm the Death of a Friend's Child 
'Eurydice' . ' . ' . ' . ' . 
She Came and Went 
The Changeling . ' 
The Pioneer 

•Longing . . . . . 
Ode to* France . 
Anti-Apis . ' . ' . ' . 



80 
81 
82 
83 
85 
86 

87 
89 
89 
90 
90 

9i 
92 

95 
96 



A' Parable 

Ode written for the Celebration of the Introduction of the Cochituate 

Water into the City of Boston 97 

Lines suggested by the Graves of two English Soldiers on Concord Battle 

"Ground ' . ' . ' . . . ' . ' . 97 



To- 
Freeddm 
Bibliolatres 
Beaver' Bro6k 



Memorial .Verses. 

Kossuth . ■" 
To Lamaftine 



9 l 
98 

99 

100 



xox 
101 



To John G. Palfrey 102 

To W. L. Garrison . . . ... . . . . . 104 

On the Death of C. T. Torrey . .104 



CONTENTS. 



vu 



Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing . . .105 

To the Memory of Hood . . . - . . 106 

Sonnets. 

1. ToA.C.1 . . . . ' . .107 

11. " What were I, Love " . . . . . . . • 107 

in. " I would not have this perfect love " 108 

iv. " For this true nobleness " 108 

v. To the Spirit of Keats 108 

vi. "Great Truths are portions of the soul " ..... 108 

vu. " I ask not for those thoughts " * • . 109 

viii. To M. W. on her birthday . . 109 

ix. " My Love, I have no fear " . . . . . • . . 109 

x. "I cannot think that thou " 169 

xi. " There never yet was flower " . . . . . . . no 

xii. Sub Pondere Crescit . .110 

xnf. " Beloved, in the noisy city here " . * . ' . . .110 

xiv. On reading Wordsworth's Sonnets in Defence of Capital Punish- 
ment . . '. '. . ". . '. ". . . no 

xv. The same continued in 

xvi. The same continued . . . . . . . . .111 

xvii. The same continued in 

xvm. The same continued . . . . . . . . . in 

xix. The same continued 112 

xx. ToM. O. S. . . .112 

xxi. . " Our love is not a fading, earthly flower " . . . .112 

xxn. In Absence .... . 113 

xxiii. WendelL Phillips 113 

xxiv. The Street. ....... . 113 

xxv. "I grieve not that .ripe Knowledge" 113 

. xxvi. To J. R. Giddings . . . .... . . . .114 

xxvn. " I thought our love at full " . 114 

L'Envpi ... . . . . 114 

The Vision of Sir X^aunfal . . . . ... . .117 

A Fable for Critics . . . . . 123 

The Biglow Papers. First Series. 

Notices of an Independent Press 165 

Note to Title-Page . .- . . . . . . . . . 172 

Introduction . . . . # 174 

1. A Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the Hon. Joseph 

T.Buckingham. ... .....* . . . .183 

11. A Letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Hon, J. T. Buckingham 185 
in. What Mr. Robinson thinks ...... . . . . 190 

iv. Remarks of Increase D. O'Phace, Esq- ...... 194 

v. The Debate in the Sennit 200 

vi. The Pious Editor's «Creed ...... . . . 203 

vu.' A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency in answer to suttin 

Questions proposed by Mr. Hosea Biglow . . . . . 206 

vi 1 1. A second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 210 

ix, A third Letter from-B. Sawin, Esq. . . . . . .216 



viii CONTENTS. 

The Biglow Papers. Second Series 

Introduction , . ' . . .. • . . . . , 227 

The Courtin' . 251 

1. Birdofredum Sawin, Esq., to Mr. Hosea Biglow .... 253 

11. Mason and Slidell : A Yankee Idyll 261 

in. Birdofredum Sawin, Esq., to Mr. Hosea Biglow . . . 274 

iv. A Message of Jeff Davis in Secret Session 283 

v. Speech of Honourable Preserved Doe in Secret Caucus . . 289 

vi. Sunthin' in the Pastoral Line 296 

vii. Latest views of Mr. Biglow . •> 302 

Viii. Ketelopotomachia 307 

ix. The Editors of the "Atlantic'* 310 

x. Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of the Atlantic Monthly . . 314 

xi. Mr. Hosea Biglow's Speech in March Meeting . . . .317 

Glossary 327 

Index 331 

The Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 349 

An Oriental Apologue . . • ". • ■ 361 

Under the Willows, and other Poems 

To Charles Eliot Norton 371 

Under the Willows 371 

Dara 378 

The First Snow-Fall 379 

The Singing Leaves 379 

. Sea-Weed 381 

The Finding of the Lyre . . . 381 

New Year's Eve. 1850 382 

For an Autograph . . . . 382 

Al Fresco 382 

Masaccio . -333 

Without and Within 384 

Godminster Chimes 384 

The Parting of the Ways 385 

Aladdin 387 

An Invitation 387 

The Nomades 389 

Self-Study 390 

Pictures from Appledore 390 

The Wind-Harp . . . .395 

Auf Wiedersehen • . 396 

Palinode . . . . . . . . • 396 

After the Burial 396 

•* The Dead House 397 

A Mood •••.. 398 

The Voyage to Vinland 398 

Mahmood the Image- Breaker ........ 402 

Invita Minerva . • . . 403 

The Fountain of Youth • . 404 



CONTENTS. ix 

Yussouf • 406 

The Darkened Mind . . 407 

What Rabbi Jehosha said T • • • 407 

All-Saints m 407 

A Winter- Evening Hymn to my Fire 408 

Fancy's Casuistry 410 

To Mr. John Bartlett 411 

Ode to Happiness 411 

Villa Franca 413 

The Miner 414 

Gold Egg : A Dream-Fantasy . . . i . . . . 414 

A Familiar Epistle to a Friend . . 416 

An Ember Picture 418 

ToH. W. L. . . . . . 419 

The Nightingale in the Study 420 

In the Twilight 421 

The Foot-path . ..... 421 

Poems of the War. 

The Washers of the Shroud 423 

Two Scenes from the Life of Blondel 425 

Memoriae Positum 427 

On Board the '76 _ 428 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemoration 429 

L'Envoi : To the Muse 436 

The Cathedral 439 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THRENODIA. 

Gone, gone from us ! and shall we 

see 
Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, 
Those calm eyes, nevermore? 
Those deep, dark eyes so warm and 

bright, 
Wherein the fortunes of the man 
Lay slumbering in prophetic light, 
In characters a child might scan ? 
So bright, and gone forth utterly ! 
O stern word — Nevermore ! 

The stars of those two gentle eyes 
Will shine no more on earth ; 
Quenched are the hopes that had their 

birth, 
As we watched them slowly rise, 
Stars of a mother's fate ; 
And she would read them o'er and o'er, 
Pondering as she sate, 
Over their dear astrology, 
Which she had conned and conned 

before, 
Deeming she needs must read aright 
What was writ so passing bright. 
And yet, alas ! she knew not why, 
Her voice would falter in its song, 
And tears would slide from out her eye, 
Silent, as they were doing wrong. 

stern word — Nevermore ! 

The tongue that scarce had learned 
to claim 
An entrance to a mother's heart 
By that dear talisman, a mother's name, 
Sleeps all forgetful of its art ! 

1 loved to see the infant soul 
(How mighty in the weakness 
Of its untutored meekness !) 
Peep timidly from out its nest, 

x 



His lips, the while, 

Fluttering with half-fledged words, 

Or hushing to a smile 

That more than words expressed, 

When his glad mother on him stole 

And snatched him to her breast ! 

O, thoughts were brooding in those 
eyes, 

That would have soared like strong- 
winged birds 

Far, far, into the skies, 

Gladding the earth with song, 

And gushing harmonies, 

Had he but tarried with us long ! 

O stern word — Nevermore ! 

How peacefully they rest, 
Crossfolded there 
Upon his little breast, 
Those small, white hands that ne'er 

were still before, 
But ever sported with his mother's hair, 
Or the plain cross that on her breast 

she wore ! 
Her heart no more will beat 
To feel the touch of that soft palm, 
That ever seemed a new surprise 
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 
To bless him with their holy calm, — 
Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes 

as sweet. 
How quiet are the hands 
That wove those pleasant bands ! 
But that they do not fise and sink 
With his calm breathing, I should think 
That he were dropped asleep. 
Alas ! too deep, too deep 
Is this his slumber ! 
Time scarce can number 
The years ere he will wake again. 
O, may we see his eyelids open then ! 
O stern word — Nevermore ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



As the airy gossamere, 
Floating in the sunlight clear, 
Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, 
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, 
So from his spirit wandered out 
Tendrils spreading all about, 
Knitting all things to its thrall 
With a perfect love of all : 
O stern word — Nevermore 1 

He did but float a little way 
Adown the stream of time, 
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples 

p la y» 

Or hearkening their fairy chime ; 

His slender sail 

Ne'er felt the gale ; 

He did but float a little way, 

And, putting to the shore 

While yet 't was early day, 

Went calmly on his way, 

To dwell with us no more ! 

No jarring did he feel, 

No grating on his vessel's keel ; 

A strip of silver sand 

Mingled the waters with the land 

Where he was seen no more : 

O stern word — Nevermore ! 

Full short his journey was ; no dust 
Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 
The weary weight that old men must, 
He bore not to the grave. 
He seemed a cherub who had lost his 

way 
And wandered hither, so his stay 
With us was short, and't was most meet 
That he should be no delver in earth's 

clod, 
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God : 
O blest word — Evermore I 

1839. 



THE SIRENS. 

The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, 
The sea is restless and uneasy ; 
Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, 
Wandering thou knowest not whith- 
er ; — 
Our little isle is green and breezy, 



Come and rest thee ! O come hither 
Come to this peaceful home of ours, 

Where evermore 
The low west-wind creeps panting up 

the shore 
To be at rest among the flowers ; 
Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 

As the dark waves of the sea 
Draw in and out of rocky rifts, 

Calling solemnly to thee 
With voices deep and hollow, — 
" To the shore 
Follow ! O, follow ! 
To be at rest forevermore ! 
Forevermore ! " 

Look how the gray old Ocean 
From the depth of his heart rejoices, 
Heaving with a gentle motion, 
When he hears our restful voices ; 
List how he sings in an undertone, 
Chiming with our melody ; 
And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
Melt jnto one low voice alone, 
That murmurs over the weary sea, 
And seems to sing from everywhere, — 
" Here mayst thou harbor peacefully, 
Here mayst thou rest from the aching 
oar ; 
Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
And in our green isle rest forevermore ! 

Forevermore ! " 
And Echo half wakes in the wooded 
hill, 
And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
Murmurs over in her sleep, 
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still 
" Evermore ! " 

Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sweet, from far and near, 
Ever singing low and clear, 
Ever singing longingly. 

Is it not better here to be, 
Than to be toiling late and soon ? 
In the dreary night to see 
Nothing but the blood-red moon 
Go up and down into the sea ; 
Or, in the loneliness of day, 

To see the still seals only 
Solemnly lift their faces gray, 

Making it yet more lonely ? 
Is it not better, than to hear 



IRENE. 



Only the sliding of the wave 
Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
A cold and lonely grave, 
A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
Even in death unquietly ? 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn 
bark, 
Lean over the side and see 
The leaden eye of the sidelong shark 
Upturned patiently, 
Ever waiting there for thee : 
Look down and see those shapeless 
forms, 
Which ever keep their dreamless 

sleep 
Far down within the gloomy deep, 
And only stir themselves in storms, 
Rising like islands from beneath, 
And snorting through the angry spray, 
As the frail vessel perisheth 
In the whirls of their unwieldy play ; 

Look down ! Look down ! 
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, 
That waves its arms so lank and brown, 

Beckoning for thee ! 
Look down beneath thy wave- worn 
bark 
Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
Look down ! Look down ! 

Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sad, from far and near, 
Ever singing full of fear, 
Ever singing drearfully. 

Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, 
The green grass floweth like a stream 
Into the ocean's blue ; 
Listen ! O, listen ! 
Here is a gush of many streams, 

A song of many birds, 
And every wish and longing seems 
Lulled to a numbered flow of words, — 

Listen ! O, listen ! 
Here ever hum the golden bees 
Underneath full-blossomed trees, 
At once with glowing fruit and flowers 

crowned ; — 
The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, 
That thy keel will not grate as it touches 

the land ; * 

All around with a slumberous sound, 
The singing waves slide up the strand, 



And there, where the smooth, wet peb- 
bles be, 
The waters gurgle longingly, 
As if they fain would seek the shore, 
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
To be at rest forevermore, — 
Forevermore. 
Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sweet, from far and near, 
Ever singing in his ear, 
"Here is rest and peace for thee!" 

NANTASKET, July, 1840. 



IRENE. 

Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal- 
clear ; 

Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, 

Free without boldness, meek without a 
fear, 

Quicker to look than speak its sympa- 
thies ; 

Far down into her large and patient 
eyes 

I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, 

As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still 
night, 

I look into the fathomless blue skies. 

So circled lives she with Love's holy 

light, 
That from the shade of self she walketh 

free : 
The garden of her soul still keepeth 

she 
An Eden where the snake did never 

enter ; 
She hath a natural, wise sincerity, 
A simple truthfulness, and these have 

lent her 
A dignity as moveless as the centre ; 
So that no influence of earth can stir 
Her steadfast courage, nor can take 

away 
The holy peacefulness, which, night 

and day, 
Unto her queenly soul doth minister. 

Most gentle is she ; her large charity 
(An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) 
Not freer is to give than meelc to bear ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And, though herself not unacquaint 
with care, 

Hath in her heart wide room for all 
that be, — 

Her heart that hath no secrets of its 
own, 

But open is as eglantine full blown. 

Cloudless forever is her brow serene, 

Speaking calm hope and trust within 
her, whence 

Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, 

That keepeth all her life so fresh, so 
green 

And full of holiness, that every look, 

The greatness of her woman's soul re- 
vealing, 

Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feel- 
ing 

As when I read in God's own holy 
book. 

A graciousness in giving that doth 

make 
The small'st gift greatest, and a sense 

most meek 
Of worthiness, that doth not fear to 

take 
From others, but which always fears to 

speak 
Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's 

sake ; — 
The deep religion of a thankful heart, 
Which rests instinctively in Heaven's 

clear law 
With a full peace, that never can de- 
part 
From its own steadfastness ; — a holy 

awe 
For holy things, — not those which men 

call holy, 
But such as are revealed to the eyes 
Of a true woman's soul bent down and 

lowly 
Before the face of daily mysteries ; — 
A love that blossoms soon, but ripens 

slowly 
To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, 
Enduring with a firmness that defies 
All shallow tricks of circumstance and 

time, 
By a sure insight knowing where to 

cling, 
And where it clingeth never wither- 



These are Irene's dowry, which no fate 
Can shake from their serene, deep- 
builded state. 

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which 

chasteneth 
No less than loveth, scorning to be 

bound 
With fear of blame, and yet which ever 

hasteneth 
To pour the balm of kind looks on the 

wound, 
If they be wounds which such sweet 

teaching makes, 
Giving itself a pang for others' sakes ; 
No want of faith, that chills with side- 
long eye, 
Hath she ; no jealousy, no Levite pride 
That passeth by upon the other side ; 
For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. 
Right from the hand of God her spirit 

came 
Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten 

whence 
It came, nor wandered far from thence, 
But laboreth to keep her still the same, 
Near to her place of birth, that she 

may not 
Soil her white raiment with an earthly 

spot. 

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily 
Above, that she forgets her ties to 

earth, 
But her whole thought would almost 

seem to be 
How to make glad one lowly human 

hearth ; 
For with a gentle courage she doth 

strive 
In thought and word and feeling so to 

live 
As to make earth next heaven ; and 

her heart 
Herein doth show its most exceeding 

worth. 
That, bearing in our frailty her just 

part, 
She hath not shrunk from evils of this 

life, 
But hath gone calmly forth into the 

strife. * 

And all its sins and sorrows hath with- 
stood 



SERENADE.— WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. 



With lofty strength of patient woman- 
hood : 

For this I love her great soul more than 
all, 

That, being bound, like us, with earthly 
thrall, 

She walks so bright and heaven-like 
therein, — 

Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to 
sin. 

Like a lone star through riven storm- 
clouds seen 

By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, 

Telling of rest and peaceful heavens 
nigh, 

Unto my soul her star-like soul hath 
been, 

Her sight as full of hope and calm to 
me ; — 

For she unto herself hath builded high 

A home serene, wherein to lay her 
head, 

Earth's noblest thing, a Woman per- 
fected. 
1840. 



SERENADE. 

From the close-shut windows gleams 

no spark, 
The night is chilly, the night is dark, 
The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan, 
My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, 
Under thy window I sing alone, 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

The darkness is pressing coldly around, 
The windows shake with a lonely sound, 
The stars are hid and the night is drear, 
The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, 
In thy chamber thou sittest alone, 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

The world is happy, the world is wide, 
Kind hearts are beating on every side ; 
Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled 
Alone in the shell of this great world ? 
Why should we any more be alone? 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

O, 't is a bitter and dreary word, 
The saddest by man's ear ever heard ! 



We each are young, we each have a 

heart, 
Why stand we ever coldly apart ? 
Must we forever, then, be alone ? 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 
1840. 



WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. 

This little blossom from afar 
Hath come from other lands to thine ; 
For, once, its white and drooping star 
Could see its shadow in the Rhine. 

Perchance some fair-haired German 

maid 
Hath plucked one from the self-same 

stalk, 
And numbered over, half afraid, 
Its petals in her evening walk. 

" He loves me, loves me not," she 

cries ; 
" He loves me more than earth or 

heaven ! " 
And then glad tears have filled her 

eyes 
To find the number was uneven. 

And thou must count its petals well, 
Because it is a gift from me ; 
And the last one of all shall tell 
Something I 've often told to thee. 

But here at home, where we were born, 
Thou wilt find flowers just as true, 
Down-bending every summer morn, 
With freshness of New-England dew. 

For Nature, ever kind to love, 

Hath granted them the same sweet 

tongue, 
Whether with German skies above, 
Or here our granite rocks among. 
1840. 



THE BEGGAR. 

A beggar through the world am I, — 
From place to place I wander by. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me. 
For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! 

A little of thy steadfastness, 
Rounded with leafy gracefulness, 
Old oak, give me, — 
That the world's blasts may round me 

blow, 
And I yield gently to and fro, 
While my stout-hearted trunk below 
And firm-set roots unshaken be. 

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, 
Enduring still through day and night 
Rude tempest - shock and withering 

blight, — 
That I may keep at bay 
The changeful April sky of chance 
And the strong tide of circumstance, — 
Give me, old granite gray, 

Some of thy pensiveness serene, 
Some of thy never-dying green, 
Put in this scrip of mine, — 
That griefs may fall like snow-flakes 

light, 
And deck me in a robe of white, 
Ready to be an angel bright, — 

sweetly mournful pine. 

A Httle of thy merriment, 
Of thy sparkling, light content, 
Give me, my cheerful brook, — 
That I may still be full of glee 
And gladsomeness, where'er I be, 
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me 
In some neglected nook. 

Ye have been very kind and good 
To me, since I 've been in the wood ; 
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart ; 
But good by, kind friends, every one, 

1 've far to go ere set of sun ; 

Of all good things I would have part, 
The day was high ere I could start, 
And so my journey 's scarce begun. 

Heaven help me ! how could I forget 
To beg of thee, dear violet 1 
Some of thy modesty, 
That blossoms here as well, unseen, 
As if before the world thou 'dst been, 
O, give, to strengthen me. 
1839. 



MY LOVE. 



Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star, 
And yet her heart is ever near. 



Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone, 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to 
blow. 

in. 
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fair ; 
No simplest duty is forgot, 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 



She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 



She hath no scorn of common things, 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Round us her heart intwines and 

clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 



Blessing she is : God made her so, 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow, 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 



She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 



SUMMER STORM. 



She is a woman : one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 



I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might, 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



And, on its full, deep breast serene, 
Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green, 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 
1840. 

SUMMER STORM. 

Untremulous in the river clear, 
"Toward the sky's image, hangs the im- 
aged bridge ; 
So still the air that I can hear 
The slender clarion of the unseen midge ; 
Out of the stillness, with a gathering 
creep, 
Like rising wind in leaves, which now 

decreases, 
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while 
increases, 
The huddling trample of a drove of 
sheep 
Tilts the loose planks, and then as grad- 
ually ceases 
In dust on the other side ; life's em- 
blem deep, 
A confused noise between two silences, 
Finding at last in dust precarious peace. 
On the wide marsh the purple-blos- 
somed grasses 
Soak up the sunshine ; sleeps the 
brimming tide, 
Save when the wedge-shaped wake in 
silence passes 
Of some slow water-rat, whose sinu- 
ous glide 
Wavers the long green sedge's shade 
from side to side ; 



But up the west, like a rock-shivered 
surge, 
Climbs a great cloud edged with sun- 
whitened spray ; 
Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er 
its verge, 
And falling still it seems, and yet it 
climbs alway. 

Suddenly all the sky is hid 
As with the shutting of a lid, 
One by one great drops are falling 

Doubtful and slow, 
Down the pane they are crookedly 
crawling. 
And the wind breathes low ; 
Slowly the circles widen on the river, 

Widen and mingle, one and all ; 
Here and there the slenderer flowers 
shiver, 
Struck by an icy rain-drop's falL 

Now on the hills I hear the thunder 
mutter, 
The wind is gathering in the west ; 
The upturned leaves first whiten and 
flutter, 
Then droop to a fitful rest ; 
Up from the stream with sluggish flap 
Struggles the gull and floats away ; 
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder- 
clap, — 
We shall not see the sun go down to- 
day : 
Nowleaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 
And tramples the grass with terrified 
feet, 
Thestartledriverturnsleadenandharsh. 
You can hear the quick heart of the 
tempest beat 

Look ! look ! that livid flash ! 
And instantly follows the rattling thun- 
der, 
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, 
Fell, splintering with r. ruinous 
crash, 
On the Earth, which crouches in silence 
under ; 
And now a solid gray wall of rain 
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile ; 
For a breath's space I see the blue 
wood again, 



8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind- 
hurled pile, 
That seemed but now a league aloof, 
Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched 
roof ; 
Against the windows the storm comes 

dashing, 
Through tattered foliage the hail tears 
crashing, 

The blue lightning flashes, 
The rapid hail clashes, 
The white waves are tumbling, 

And, in one baffled roar, 
Like the toothless sea mumbling 

A rock-bristled shore, 
The thunder is rumbling 
And crashing and crumbling, — 
Will silence return never more ? 

Hush ! Still as death, 
The tempest holds his breath 
As from a sudden will ; 
The rain stopsshort, but from the eaves 
You see it drop, and hear it from the 
leaves, 
All is so bodingly still ; 
Again, now, now, again 
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, 
The crinkled lightning 
Seems ever brightening, 
And loud and long 
Again the thunder shouts 
His battle-song, — 
One quivering, flash, 
One wildering crash, 
Followed by silence dead and dull, 
As if the cloud, let go, 
Leapt bodily below 
To whelm the earth in one mad over- 
throw, 
And then a total lull. 

Gone, gone, so soon ! 
No more my half-crazed fancy there 
Can shape a giant in the air, 
No more I see his streaming hair, 
The writhing portent of his form ; — 
The pale and quiet moon 
Makes her calm forehead bare, 
And the last fragments of the storm, 
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, 
Silent and few, are drifting over me. 

1839. 



LOVE. 

True Love is but a humble, low-born 
thing, 

And hath its food served up in earthen 
ware ; 

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, 

Through the every-daynessof this work- 
day world, 

Baring its tender feet to every rough- 
ness, 

Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray 

From Beauty's law of plainness and 
content ; 

A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet 
smile 

Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a 
home ; 

Which, when our autumn, cometh, as it 
must, 

And life in the chill wind shivers bare 
and leafless, 

Shall still be blest with Indian-summer 
youth 

In bleak November, and, with thank- 
ful heart, 

Smile on its ample stores of garnered 
fruit, 

As full of sunshine to our aged eyes 

As when it nursed the blossoms of our 
spring. 

Such is true Love, which steals into 
the heart 

With feet as silent as the lightsome 
dawn 

That kisses smooth the rough brows 
of the dark, 

And hath its will through blissful gen- 
tleness, — 

Not like a rocket, which, with savage 
glare, 

Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and 
leaves the night 

Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes ; 

A love that gives and takes, that seeth 
faults, 

Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle 
points, 

But loving-kindly ever looks them 
down 

With the o'ercoming faith of meek for- 
giveness ; 

A love that shall be new and fresh each 
hour, 



TO PERD1TA, SINGING. 



As is the golden mystery of sunset, 
Or the sweet coming of the evening 

star, 
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, 
And seeming ever best and fairest now; 
A love that doth not kneel for what it 

seeks, 
But faces Truth and Beauty as their 

peer, 
Showing its' worthiness of noble 

thoughts 
By a clear sense of inward nobleness; 
A love that in its object findeth not 
All grace and beauty, and enough to 

sate 
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good 
Found there, it sees but Heaven-grant- 
ed types 
Of good and beauty in the soul of man, 
And traces, in the simplest heart that 

beats, 
A family-likeness to its chosen one, 
That claims of it the rights of brother- 
hood. 
For love is blind but with the fleshly 

eye, 
That so its inner sight may be more 

clear ; 
And outward shows of beauty only so 
Are needful at the first, as is a hand 
To guide and to uphold an infant's 

steps : 
Great spirits need them not : their ear- 
nest look 
Pierces the body's mask of thin dis- 
guise, 
And beauty ever is to them revealed, 
Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump 

of clay, 
With arms outstretched and eager face 

ablaze, 
Yearning to be but understood and 
loved. 
1840. 



TO PERDITA, SINGING. 

Thy voice is like a fountain, 

Leaping up in clear moonshine ; 
Silver, silver, ever mounting, 
Ever sinking, 
Without thinking, 
To that brimful heart of thine. 



Every sad and happy feeling, 
Thou hast had in bygone years, 
Through thy lips comes stealing, steal- 
ing, 
Clear and low ; 
All thy smiles and all thy tears 
In thy voice awaken, 
And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, 
From their teaching it hath taken : 
Feeling and music move together, 
Like a swan and shadow ever 
Floating on a sky-blue river 
In a day of cloudless weather. 

It hath caught a touch of sadness, 

Yet it is not sad ; 
It hath tones of clearest gladness, 

Yet it is not glad ; 
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is 

Where to-day's accustomed blue 
Is over-grayed with memories, 
With starry feelingsquivered through. 

Thy voice is like a fountain 
Leaping up in sunshine bright, 

And I never weary counting 
Its clear droppings, lone and single, 
Or when in one full gush they mingle, 

Shooting in melodious light. 

Thine is music such as yields 
Feelings of old brooks and fields, 
And, around this pent-up room, 
Sheds a woodland, free perfume ; 
O, thus forever sing to me ! 
O, thus forever ! 
The green, bright grass of childhood 
bring to me, 
Flowing like an emerald river, 
And the bright blue skies above ! 
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever, 
Into the bosom of my love, — 
The sunshine and the merriment, 
The unsought, evergreen content, 

Of that never cold time, 
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, 
went 
Through and through the old time ! 

Peace sits within thine eyes, 

With white hands crossed in joyful 

rest, 
While, through thy lips and face, 

arise 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The melodies from out thy breast ; 

She sits and sings, 

With folded wings 

And white arms crost, 
" Weep not for bygone things, 

They are not lost : 
The beauty which the summer time 
O'er thine opening spirit shed, 
The forest oracles sublime 
That filled thy soul with joyous dread, 
The scent of every smallest flower 
That made thy heart sweet for an 

hour, — 
Yea, every holy influence, 
Flowing to thee, thou knewest not 

whence, 
In thine eyes to-day is seen, 
Fresh as it hath ever been ; 
Promptings of Nature, beckonings 

sweet, 
Whatever led thy childish feet, 
Still will linger unawares 
The guiders of thy silver hairs ; 
Every look and every word 
Which thou givest forth to-day, 
Tell of the singing of the bird 
Whose music stilled thy boyish 
play." 

Thy voice is like a fountain. 
Twinkling up in sharp starlight, 
When the moon behind the mountain 
Dims the low East with faintest 
white, 
Ever darkling, 
Ever sparkling, 
We know not if 't is dark or bright ; 
But, when the great moon hath rolled 
round, 
And, sudden-slow, its solemn power 
Grows from behind its black, clear- 
edged bound, 
No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, 
But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth 
Into a waving silver flower. 
1841. 



THE MOON. 
My soul was like the sea, 
Before the moon was made, 
Moaning in vague immensity, 
Of its own strength afraid, 
Unrestful and unstaid. 



Through every rift it foamed in vain, 

About its earthly prison, 
Seeking some unknown thing in pain, 
And sinking restless back again, 

For yet no moon had risen : 
Its only voice a vast dumb moan, 

Of utterless anguish speaking, 
It lay unhopefully alone, 

And lived but in an aimless seeking. 

So was my soul ; but when 't was full 

Of unrest to o'erloading, 
A voice of something beautiful 

Whispered a dim foreboding, 
And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, 
It had not more of joy than woe ; 
And, as the sea doth oft lie still, 

Making its waters meet, 
As if by an unconscious will, 

For the moon's silver feet, 
So lay my soul within mine eyes 
When thou, its guardian moon, didst 
rise. 

And now, howe'er its waves above 
May toss and seem uneaseful, 

One strong, eternal law of Love, 
With guidance sure and peaceful, 

As calm and natural as breath, 

Moves its great deeps through life and 
death. 



REMEMBERED MUSIC. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast 
Of bisons the far prairie shaking, 
The notes crowd heavily and fast 
As surfs, one plunging while the last 
Draws seaward from its foamy break- 
ing. 

Or in low murmurs they began, 
Rising and rising momently, 

As o'er a harp ^Eolian 

A fitful breeze, until ihey ran 
Up to a sudden ecstasy. 

And then, like minute-drops of rain 
Ringing in water silverly, 



SONG. — ALLEGRA.— THE FOUNTAIN. 



They lingering dropped and dropped 

again, 
Till it was almost like a pain 
To listen when the next would be. 
1840. 

SONG. 

TO M. L. 

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, 
A lily-bud not opened quite, 
That hourly grew more pure and 
white, 
By morning, and noontide, and evening 
nursed : 
In all of nature thou hadst thy share ; 
Thou wast waited on 
By the wind and sun ; 
The rain and the dewfor thee tookcare; 
It seemed thou never couldst be more 
fair. 

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, 
A lily-bud ; but O, how strange, 
How full of wonder was the change, 
When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full 
bloom burst ! 
Ho w did th e tears to my glad eyes start, 
When the woman-flower 
Reached its blossoming hour, 
And I saw the warm deeps of thy 
golden heart ! 

Glad death may pluck thee, but never 
before 
The gold dust of thy bloom divine 
Hath dropped from thy heart into 
mine, 
To quicken its faint germs of heavenly 
lore; 
For no breeze comes nigh thee but 
carries away 

Some impulses bright 

Of fragrance and light, 

Which fall upon souls that are lone 

and astray, 
To plant fruitful hopes of the flower 
of day. 



ALLEGRA. 

I would more natures were like thine, 
That never casts a glance before, — 



Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine 
So lavishly to all dost pour, 

That we who drink forget to pine, 
And can but dream of bliss in store. 

Thou canst not see a shade in life ; 

With sunward instinct thou dost rise, 
And, leaving clouds below at strife, 

Gazest undazzled at the skies, 
With all their blazing splendors rife, 

A songful lark with eagle's eyes. 

Thou wast some foundling whom the 
Hours 
Nursed, laughing, with the milk of 
Mirth ; 
Some influence more gay than ours 

Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, 
As if thy natal stars were flowers 
That shook their seeds round thee on 
earth. 

And thou, to lull thine infant rest, 
Wast cradled like an Indian child ; 

All pleasant winds from south and west 
With lullabies thine ears beguiled, 

Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, 
Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. 

Thine every fancy seems to borrow 
A sunlight from thy childish years, 

Making a golden cloud of sorrow, 
A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, — 

Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, 
Though 'yond to-day it never peers. 

I would more natures were like thine, 
So innocently wild and free, 

Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and 
shine, 
Like sunny wavelets in the sea, 

Making us mindless of the brine, 
In gazing on the brilliancy. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

Into the sunshine, 
Full of the light, 

Leaping and flashing 
From morn till night ! 

Into the moonlight, 
Whiter than enow, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Waving so flower-like 
When the winds blow ! 

Into the starlight 

Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight, 

Happy by day I 

Ever in motion, 

Blithesome and cheery, 
Still climbing heavenward, 

Never aweary ; — 

Glad of all weathers, 
Still seeming best, 

Upward or downward, 
Motion thy rest ; — 

Full of a nature 
Nothing can tame, 

Changed every moment, 
Ever the same ; — 

Ceaseless aspiring, 
Ceaseless content, 

Darkness or sunshine 
Thy element ; — 

Glorious fountain \ 

Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant, 

Upward, like thee ! 



ODE. 



Ih the old days of awe and keen-eyed 
wonder, 
The Poet's song with blood-warm 
truth was rife ; 
He saw the mysteries which circle under 
Theoutwardshellandskin of daily life. 
Nothing to him were fleeting time and 
fashion, 
His soul was led by the eternal law ; 
There was in him no hope of fame, no 
passion, 
But, with calm, godlike eyes he only 
saw. 
He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and 
buried, 



Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's 
hearse, 
Nor deem that souls whom Charon 
grim had ferried 
Alone werefittingthemesof epic verse: 
He could believe the promise of to- 
morrow, 
And feel the wondrous meaning of to- 
day ; 
He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow 
Than the world's seeming loss could 
take away. 
To know the heart of all things was his 
duty, 
All things did sing to him to make 
him wise, 
And, with a sorrowful and conquering 
beauty, 
The soul of all looked grandly from 
his eyes. 
He gazed on all within him and without 
him, 
He watched the flowing of Time's 
steady tide, 
And shapes of glory floated all abouthim 
And whispered to him, and he 
prophesied. 
Than all men he more fearless was and 
freer, 
And all his brethren cried with one 
accord, — 
"Behold the holy man! Behold the 
Seer ! 
Him who hath spoken with the unseen 
Lord ! " 
He to his heart with large embrace had 
taken 
The universal sorrow of mankind, 
And, from that root, a shelter never 
shaken, 
The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy 
rind. 
He could interpret well the wondrous 
voices 
Which to the calm and silent spirit 
come; 
He knew that the One Soul no more 
rejoices 
In the star's anthem than the insect's 
hum. 
He in his heart was ever meek and 
humble, 
And yet with kingly pomp his num- 
bers ran, 



ODE. 



13 



As he foresaw how all things false 
should crumble 
Before the free, uplifted soul of man : 
And, when he was made full to over- 
flowing 
With all the loveliness of heaven and 
earth, 
Out rushed his song, like molten iron 
glowing, 
To show God sitting by the humblest 
hearth. 
With calmest courage he was ever ready 
To teach that action was the truth of 
thought, 
And, with strong arm and purpose firm 
and steady, 
An anchor for the drifting world he 
wrought. 
Godidhe make the meanestman partaker 
Of all hisbrother-godsunto him gave ; 
All souls did reverence him and name 
him Maker, 
And when he died heaped temples on 
his grave. 
And still his deathless words of light 
are swimming 
Serene throughout the great deep in- 
finite 
Of human soul, unwaning and undim- 
ming, 
To cheer and guide the mariner at 
night. 



But now the Poet is an empty rhymer 
Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, 
And fitshissingingjikeacunningtimer, 
To all men's prides and fancies as 
they pass. 
Nothisthe song, which, in its metre holy, 
Chimes with the music of the eternal 
stars, 
Humblingthetyrantjiftingup the lowly, 
And sending sun through the soul's 
prison-bars. 
Maker no more, — O no! unmaker 
rather, 
For he unmakes who doth not all put 
forth 
The power given by our loving Father 
To show the body's dross, the spirit's 
worth. 
Awake ! great spirit of the ages olden ! 
Shiver the mists that hide thy starry 
lyre, 



And letman's soul beyetagain beholden 
To thee for wings to soar to her desire. 
O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splen- 
dor, 
Be no more shamefaced to speak out 
for Truth, 
Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, 
The hope, the fire, the loving faith of 
youth ! 
O, prophesy no more the Maker's 
coming, 
Say not his onward footsteps thou 
canst hear 
In the dim void, like to the awful hum- 
ming 
Of the great wings of some new-light- 
ed sphere ! 
O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet ! ' 

Thislonging was butgranted unto thee 
That, when all beauty thou couldst feel 
and know it, 
That beauty in its highest thou couldst 
be. 
O, thou who moanest tost with sealike 
longings 
Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, 
Whose soul is overfilled with mighty 
throngings 
Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, 
Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron 
sinews 
And soul by Mother Earth with free- 
dom fed, 
In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, 
The old free nature is not chained or 
dead, 
Arouse ! let thy soul break in music- 
thunder, 
Let loose the ocean that is in thee 
pent, 
Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, 
thy wonder, 
And tell the age what all its signs 
have meant. 
Where'er thy wildered crowd of breth- 
ren jostles, 
Where'er there lingers but a shade of 
wrong, 
There still is need of martyrs and 
apostles, 
There still are texts for never-dying 
song : 
From age toageman's still aspiring spirit 
Finds wider scope and sees with 
clearer eyes, 



14 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And thou in larger measure dost inherit 
What made thy great forerunners free 
and wise. 
Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's 
mountain 
Above the thunder lifts itssilent peak, 
And roll thy songs down like a gather- 
ing fountain. 
They all may drink and find the rest 
they seek. 
Sing ! there shall silence grow in earth 
and heaven, 
A silence of deep awe and wondering ; 
For, listening gladly, bend the angels, 
even, 
To hear a mortal like an angel sing. 



Among the toil-worn poor my soul is 
seeking 
For one to bring the Maker's name to 
light, 
To bethe voiceofthat almighty speaking 
Which every age demands to do it 
right. 
Proprieties our silken bards environ ; 
He who would be the tongue of this 
wide land 
Must string his harp with chords of 
sturdy iron 
And strike it with a toil-imbrowned 
hand ; 
One who hath dwelt with Nature well 
attended, 
Who hath learnt wisdom from her 
mystic books, 
Whose soul with all her countless lives 
hath blended, 
So that all beauty awes us in hislooks ; 
Who not with body's waste his soul 
hath pampered, 
Who as the clear northwestern wind 
is free, 
Who walks with Form's observances 
unhampered, 
And follows the One Will obediently ; 
Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy 
summit, 
Control a lovely prospect every way ; 
Who doth not sound God's sea with 
earthly plummet, 
And find a bottom still of worthless 
clay ; 



Who heeds not how the lower gusts are 
working, 
Knowing that one sure wind blows on 
above, 
And sees, beneath the foulest faces 
lurking, 
One God-built shrine of reverence 
and love ; 
Who sees all stars that wheel their 
shining marches 
Around the centre fixed of Destiny, 
Where the encircling soul serene o'er- 
arches 
The moving globe of being like a sky ; 
Who feels that God and Heaven's great 
deeps are nearer 
Him to whose heart his fellow-man is 
nigh, 
Who doth not hold his soul's own free- 
dom dearer 
Than that of all his brethren, low or 
high ; 
Who to the Right can feel himself the 
truer 
For being gently patient with the 
wrong, 
Who sees a brother in the evildoer, 
And finds in Love the heart's-blood 
of his song ; — 
This, this is he for whom the world is 
waiting 
To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 
Too long hath it been patient with the 
grating 
Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it mis- 
named Art. 
To him the smiling soul of man shall 
listen 
Laying awhile its crown of thorns 
aside, 
And once again in every eye shall glisten 

The glory of a nature satisfied. 
His verse shall have a great command- 
ing motion, 
Heaving and swelling with a melody 
Learn toft he sky, iheriver,andtheocean, 
And all the pure, majestic things that 
be. 
Awake, then, thou ! we pine for thy 
great presence 
To make us feel the soul once more 
sublime, 
We are of far too infinite an essence 
Torestcontentedwiththe lies of Time. 



THE FATHERLAND. — THE FORLORN. 



*5 



Speak out ! and, lo ! a hush of deepest 
wonder 
Shall sink o'er all this many-voiced 
scene, 
As when a sudden burst of rattling 
thunder 
Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. 

1841. 



THE FATHERLAND. 

Where is the true man's fatherland? 

Is it where he by chance is born? 

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn 
In such scant borders to be spanned? 
O yes ! his fatherland must be 
As the blue heaven wide and free ! 

Is it alone where freedom is, 

Where God is God and man is man? 

Doth he not claim a broader span 
For the soul's love of home than this? 
O yes ! his fatherland must be 
As the blue heaven wide and free ! 

Where'er a human heart doth wear 
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's 

gyves, 
Where'er a human spirit strives 
After a life more true and fair, 
There is the true man's birthplace 

• grand, 
His is a world-wide fatherland ! 

Where'er a single slave doth pine, 
Where'er one man may help an- 
other, — 
Thank God for such a birthright, 
brother, — 
That spot of earth is thine and mine ! 
There is the true man's birthplace 

grand, 
His is a world-wide fatherland ! 



THE FORLORN. 

The night is dark, the stinging sleet, 
Swept by the bitter gusts of air, 

Drives whistling down the lonely street, 
And stiffens on the pavement bare. 



The street-lamps flare and struggle dim 
Through the white sleet-clouds as 
they pass, 

Or, governed by a boisterous whim, 
Drop down and rattle on the glass. 

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl 
Faces the east-wind'ssearching flaws, 

And, as about her heart they whirl, 
Her tattered cloak more tightly 
draws. 

The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, 
Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; 

Yet dares she not a shelter seek, 

Though faint with hunger and dis- 



The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, 
And, piercing through her garments 
thin, 
Beats on her shrunken breast, and 
there 
Makes colder the cold heart within. 

She lingers where a ruddy glow 
Streams outward through an open 
shutter, 

Adding more bitterness to woe, 
More loneness to desertion utter. 

One half the cold she had not felt 
Until she saw this gush of light 

Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt 
Its slow way through the deadening 
night. 

She hears a woman's voice within, 
Singing sweet words her childhood 
knew, 

And years of misery and sin 

Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. 

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks 
Outwearied in the drifting snow, 

Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks 
No longer of its hopeless woe : 

Old fields, and clear blue summer days, 

Old meadows, green with grass and 

trees, 

That shimmer through the trembling 

haze 

And whiten in the western breeze, — 



i6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Old faces, — all the friendly past 
Rises within her heart again, 

And sunshine from her childhood cast 
Makes summer of the icy rain. 

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, 

From all humanity apart, 
She hears old footsteps wandering slow 

Through the lone chambers of the 
heart. 

Outside the porch before the door, 
Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, 

She lies, no longer foul and poor, 
No longer dreary and alone. 

Next morning something heavily 
Against the opening door did weigh, 

And there, from sin and sorrow free, 
A woman on the threshold lay. 

A smile upon the wan lips told 

That she had found a calm release, 

And that, from out the want and cold, 
The song had borne her soul in peace. 

For, whom the heart of man shuts out, 
Sometimes the heart of God takes in, 

And fences them all round about 
With silence 'mid the world's loud 
din ; 

And one of his great charities 
Is Music, and it doth not scorn 

To close the lids upon the eyes 
Of the polluted and forlorn ; 

Far was she from her childhood's home, 
Farther in guilt had wandered thence, 

Yet thither it had bid her come 
To die in maiden innocence. 
1842. 



MIDNIGHT. 

The moon shines white and silent 
On the mist, which, like a tide 

Of some enchanted ocean, 
O'er the wide marsh doth glide, 

Spreading its ghost-like billows 
Silently far and wide. 



A vague and starry magic 
Makes all things mysteries, 

And lures the earth's dumb spirit 
Up to the longing skies, — 

I seem to hear dim whispers, 
And tremulous replies. 

The fireflies o'er the meadow 

In pulses come and go ; 
The elm-trees' heavy shadow 

Weighs on the grass below ; 
And faintly from the distance 

The dreaming cock doth crow. 

All things look strange and mystic, 

The very bushes swell 
And take wild shapes and motions, 

As if beneath a spell, — 
They seem not the same lilacs 

From childhood known so well. 

The snow of deepest silence 
O'er everything doth fall, 

So beautiful and quiet, 
And yet so like a pall, — 

As if all life were ended, 
And rest were come to all. 

O wild and wondrous midnight, 
There is a might in thee 

To make the charmed body 
Almost like spirit be, 

And give it some faint glimpses 
Of immortality ! 
1842. 



A PRAYER. 

God ! do not let my loved one die, 
But rather wait until the time 

That I am grown in purity 

Enough to enter thy pure clime, 

Then take me, I will gladly go, 

So that my love remain below ! 

O, let her stay ! She is by birth 

What I through death must learn to 
be; 
We need her more on our poor earth, 
Than thou canst need in heaven with 
thee : 
She hath her wings already, I 
Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly. 



THE HERITAGE. — THE ROSE. 



17 



Then, God, take me ! We shall be 
near, 

More near than ever, each to each : 
Her angel ears will find more clear 

My heavenly than my earthly speech ; 
And still, as I draw nigh to thee, 
Her soul and mine shall closer be. 

1 841. 



THE HERITAGE. 

The rich man's son inherits lands, 
And piles of brick, and stone, and 
gold, 

And he inherits soft white hands, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
The bank may break, the factory- 
burn, 
A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
And soft white hands could hardly 

earn 
A living that would serve his turn ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants, 
His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 

With sated heart, he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms 

bare, 
And wearies in his easy-chair ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 

Content that from employment 
springs, 

A heart that in his labor sings ; 



A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
A patience learned of being poor, 

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man's son ! there is a toil 
That with all others level stands ; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft white hands, — 
This is the best crop from thy lands ; 

A heritage, it seems to be, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ; 
There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great ; 
Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
Are equal in the earth at last ; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-filled past ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 



THE ROSE: A BALLAD. 



In his tower sat the poet 

Gazing on the roaring sea, 
" Take this rose," he sighed, " and 
throw it 

Where there 's none that loveth me. 
On the rock the billow bursteth 

And sinks back into the seas, 
But in vain my spirit thirsteth 

So to burst and be at ease. 
Take, O sea ! the tender blossom 

That hath lain against my breast ; 
On thy black and angry bosom 

It will find a surer rest. 
Life is vain, and love is hollow, 

Ugly death stands there behind, 



i8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hate and scorn and hunger follow 

Him that toileth for his kind." 
Forth into the night he hurled it, 

And with bitter smile did mark 
How the surly tempest whirled it 

Swift into the hungry dark. 
Foam and spray drive back to leeward, 

And the gale, with dreary moan, 
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, 

Through the breakers all alone. 



Stands a maiden, on the morrow, 

Musing by the wave-beat strand, 
Half in hope and half in sorrow, 

Tracing words upon the sand : 
" Shall I ever then behold him 

Who hath been my life so long, — 
Ever to this sick heart fold him, — 

Be the spirit of his song ? 
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 

I have traced upon thy shore, 
Spare his name whose spirit fetters 

Mine with love forevermore ! " 
Swells the tide and overflows it, 

But, with omen pure and meet, 
Brings a little rose, and throws it 

Humbly at the maiden's feet. 
Full of bliss she takes the token, 

And, upon her snowy breast, 
Soothes the ruffled petals broken 

With the ocean's fierce unrest. 
" Love is thine, O heart ! and surely 

Peace shall also be thine own, 
For the heart that trusteth purely 

Never long can pine alone." 



In his tower sits the poet, 

Blisses new and strange to him 
Fill his heart and overflow it 

With a wonder sweet and dim. 
Up the beach the ocean slideth 

With a whisper of delight, 
And the moon in silence glideth 

Through the peaceful blue of night. 
Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder 

Flows a maiden's golden hair, 
Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, 

Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. 
" Life is joy, and love is power, 

Death all fetters doth unbind, 



Strength and wisdom only flower 

When we toil for all our kind. 
Hope is truth, — the future giveth 

More than present takes away, 
And the 60ul forever liveth 

Nearer God from day to day." 
Not a word the maiden uttered, 

Fullest hearts are slow to speak, 
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 

Down upon the poet's cheek. 

' 1842. 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 

PART FIRST. 

I. 

Fair as a summer dream was Mar 
garet, — 
Such dream as in a poet's soul might 
start, 
Musing of old loves while the moon 
doth set : 
Her hair was not more sunny than 
her heart, 
Though like a natural golden coronet 
It circled her dear head with careless 
art, 
Mocking the sunshine, that would fain 

have lent 
To its frank grace a richer ornament. 



His loved one's eyes could poet ever 

speak, 
So kind, so dewy, and so deep were 

hers, — 
But, while he strives, the choicest. 

phrase, too weak, 
Their glad reflection in his spirit 

blurs ; 
As one may see a dream dissolve and 

break 
Out of his grasp when he to tell it 

stirs, 
Like that sad Dryad doomed no more 

to bless 
The mortal who revealed her loveli- 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 



19 



She dwelt forever in a region bright, 
Peopled with living fancies of her 
own, 
Where naught could come but visions 
of delight, 
Far, far aloof from earth's eternal 
moan : 
A summer cloud thrilled through with 
rosy light, 
Floating beneath the blue sky all 
alone, 
Her spirit wandered by itself, and won 
A golden edge from some unsetting sun. 



The heart grows richer that its lot is 

poor, — 
God blesses want with larger sym- 
pathies, — 
I ove enters gladliest at the humble 

door, 
And makes the cot a palace with his 

eyes ; — 
?>o Margaret's heart a softer beauty 

wore, 
And grew in gentleness and patience 

wise, 
i'or she was but a simple herdsman's 

child, 
A lily chance -sown in the rugged wild. 



There was no beauty of the wood or 
field 
But she its fragrant bosom-secret 
knew, 
Nor auy but to her would freely yield 
Some grace that in her soul took root 
and grew : 
Nature to her glowed ever new-re- 
vealed, 
All rosy-fresh with innocent morning 
dew, 
And looked into her heart with dim, 

sweet eyes 
That left it full of sylvan memories. 



O, what a face was hers to brighten 
light, 
And give back sunshine with an 
added glow, 



To wile each moment with a fresh de- 
light, 
And part of memory's best content- 
ment grow ! 

O, how her voice, as with an inmate's 
right, 
Into the strangest heart would wel- 
come go, 

And make it sweet, and ready to become 

Of white and gracious thoughts the 
chosen home ! 



None looked upon her but he straight- 
way thought 
Of all the greenest depths of country 

cheer, 
And into each one's heart was freshly 

brought 
What was to him the sweetest time 

of year, 
So was her every look and motion 

fraught 
With out-of-door delights and forest 

lere ; 
Not the first violet on a woodland lea 
Seemed a more visible gift of Spring 

than she. 



Is love learned only out of poets' books? 
Is there not somewhat in the drop- 
ping flood, 
And in the nunneries of silent nooks, 
And in the murmured longing of the 
wood, 
That could make Margaret dream of 
lovelorn looks, 
And stir a thrilling mystery in her 
blood 
More trembly secret than Aurora's tear 
Shed in the bosom of an eglatere ? 



Full many a sweet forewarning hath 
the mind, 
Full many a whispering of vague de- 
sire, 
Ere comes the nature destined to unbind 
Its virgin zone, and all its deeps in- 
spire, — 
Low stirrings in the leaves, before the 
wind 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Wakes all the green strings of the 
forest lyre, 
Faint heatings in the calyx, ere the rose 
Its warm voluptuous breast doth all un- 
close. 



Long in its dim recesses pines the spirit, 
Wildered and dark, despairingly 
alone ; 
Though many a shape of beauty wan- 
der near it, 
And many a wild and half-remem- 
bered tone 
Tremble from the divine abyss to cheer 
it, 
Yet still it knows that there is only 
one 
Before whom it can kneel and tribute 

bring, 
At once a happy vassal and a king. 



To feel a want, yet scarce know what 

it is, 
Toseek one nature that is always new, 
Whose glance is warmer than another's 

kiss, 
Whom we can bare our inmost 

beauty to, 
Nor feel deserted afterwards, — for 

this 
But with our destined co-mate we 

can do, — 
Such longing instinct fills the mighty 

scope 
Of the young soul with one mysterious 

hope. 



So Margaret's heart grew brimming 
with the lore 
Of love's enticing secrets; and al- 
though 
She had found none to cast it down be- 
fore, 
Yet oft to Fancy's chapel she would 
go 
To pay her vows, and count the rosary 
o'er 
Of her love's promised graces : — 
haply so 



Miranda's hope had pictured Ferdinand 
Long ere the gaunt wave tossed him on 
the strand. 



A new-made star that swims the lonely 

gloom, 
Unwedded yet and longing for the 

sun, 
Whose beams, the bride-gifts of the 

lavish groom, 
Blithely to crown the virgin planet 

run, 
Her being was, watching to see the 

bloom 
Of love's fresh sunrise roofing one by 

one 
Its clouds with gold, a triumph-arch 

to be 
For him who came to hold her heart in 

fee. 



Not far from Margaret's cottage dwelt 

a knight 
Of the proud Templars, a sworn celi- 
bate, 
Whose heart in secret fed upon the light 
And dew of her ripe beauty, through 

the grate 
Of his close vow catching what gleams 

he might 
Of the free heaven, and cursing — all 

too late — 
The cruel faith whose black walls 

hemmed him in 
And turned life's crowning bliss to 

deadly sin. 



For he had metherinthewoodby chance, 
And, having drunk her beauty's 
wildering spell, 
His heartshook like the pennon of alance 
That quivers in abreeze'ssudden swell, 
And thenceforth, in a close-infolded 
trance, 
From mistily golden deep to deep he 
fell ; 
Till earth did waver and fade far away 
Beneath the hope in whose warm arms 
he lay. 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 



A dark, proud man he was, whose half- 
blown youth 
Hadsheditsblossomseven in opening, 
Leaving a few that with more winning 
ruth 
Trembling around grave manhood's 
stem might cling, 
More sad than cheery, making, in good 
sooth, 
Like the fringed gentian, a late 
autumn spring : — 
A twilight nature, braided light and 

gloom, 
A youth half-smiling by an open tomb. 



Fair as an angel, who yet inly wore 
A wrinkled heart foreboding his near 
fall; 
Who saw him alway wished to know 
him more, 
As if he were some fate's defiant thrall 
And nursed a dreaded secret at its core ; 
Little he loved, but power most of all, 
And that he seemed to scorn, as one 

who knew 
By what foul paths men choose to crawl 
thereto. 



Hehadbeen noble, but some great deceit 
Had turned hisbetter instinct toa vice : 
He strove to think the world was all a 
cheat, 
That power and fame were cheap at 
any price, 
That the sure way of being shortly great 
Was even to play life's game with 
loaded dice, 
Since he had tried the honest play and 

found 
That viceandvirtuedifferedbutin sound. 



Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him 

for a space 

From his own thraldom ; man could 

never be 

A hypocrite when first such maiden grace 

Smiled in upon his heart; the agony 



Of wearing all day long a lying face 
Fell lightly from him, and, a moment 
free, 
Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood 
And scorned the weakness of his demon- 
mood. 



Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her 
thought, 
Which would not let the common air 
come near, 
Till from its dim enchantment it had 
caught 
A musical tenderness that brimmed 
his ear 
With sweetnessmoreethereal than aught 
Save silver-dropping snatches that 
whilere 
Rained down from some sad angel's 

faithful harp 
To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. 



Deep in the forest was a little dell 

High overarched with the leafy sweep 
Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled 
roots there fell 
A slender rill that sung itself asleep, 
Where its continuous toil had scooped 
a well 
To please the fairy folk ; breathlessly 
deep 
The stillness was, save when the dream- 
ing brook 
From its small urn a drizzly murmur 
shook. 



The wooded hills sloped upward all 
around 
With gradual rise, and made an even 
rim, 
So that it seemed a mighty casque un- 
bound 
From some huge Titan's brow to 
lighten him, 
Ages ago, and left upon the ground, 
Where the slow soil had mossed it to 
the brim, 
Till after countless centuries it grew 
Into this dell, the haunt of noontide 
dew. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun- 
flecked green, 
Wound through the thickset trunks 
on every side, 
And, toward the west, in fancy might be 
seen 
A gothic window in its blazing pride, 
When the low sun, two arching elms 
between, 
Lit up the leaves beyond, which, 
autumn-dyed 
With lavish hues, would into splendor 

start, 
Shaming the labored panes of richest art. 

XXIV. 

Here, leaning once against the old oak's 

trunk, 
Mordred, for such was the young 

Templar's name, 
Saw Margaret come ; unseen, the falcon 

shrunk 
From the meek dove ; sharp thrills of 

tingling flame 
Made him forget that he was vowed a 

monk, 
And all the outworks of his pride 

o'ercame : 
Flooded he seemed with bright delicious 

pain, 
As if a star had burst within his brain. 

XXV. 

Such power hath beauty and frank in- 
nocence : 
A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine 
glad to bless, 

Even from his love's long leafless stem ; 
the sense 
Of exile from Hope's happy realm 
grew less, 

And thoughts of childish peace, he 
knew not whence, 
Thronged round his heart with many 
an old caress, 

Melting the frost there into pearly dew 

That mirrored back his nature's morn- 
ing-blue. 

XXVI. 

She turned and saw him, but she felt no 
dread, 
Her purity, like adamantine mail, 



Did so encircle her ; and yet her head 
She drooped, and made her golden 
hair her veil, 

Through which a glow of rosiest lustre 
spread, 
Then faded, and anon she stood all 
pale, 

As snow o'er which a blush of northern- 
light 

Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows 
white. 

XXVII. 

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot, 
Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies' 
might, 
And how that dell was deemed a haunt- 
ed spot, , 
Until there grew a mist before her 
sight, 
And where the present was she half 
forgot, 
Borne backward through the realms 
of old delight, — 
Then, starting up awa&e, she would 

have gone, 
Yet almost wished it might notbe alone. 

XXVIII. 

How they went home together through 

the wood. 
And how all life seemed focussed into 

one 
Thought-dazzling spot that set ablaze 

the blood, 
What need to tell? Fit language 

there is none 
For the heart's deepest things. Who 

ever wooed 
As in his boyish hope he would have 

done ? 
For, when the soul is fullest, the hushed 

tongue 
Voicelessly trembles like a lute unstrung. 

XXIX. 

But all things carry the heart's mes- 
sages 
And know it not, nor doth the heart 
well know, 
But nature hath her will ; even as the 
bees, 
Blithe go-betweens, fly singing to and 
fro 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 



»3 



With the fruit-quickening pollen ; — 

hard if these 
Found not some all unthought-of 

way to show 
Their secret each to each ; and so they 

did, 
And one heart's flower-dust into the 

other slid. 



Young hearts are free ; the selfish world 

it is 
That turns them miserly and cold as 

stone, 
And makes them clutch their fingers on 

the bliss 
Which but in giving truly is their 

own ; — 
She had no dreams of barter, asked not 

his, 
But gave hers freely as she would 

have thrown 
A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth 
Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of 

its worth. 



Her summer nature felt a need to bless, 
And a like longing to be blest again ; 

So, from her sky-like spirit, gentleness 
Dropt ever like a sunlit fall of rain, 

And his beneath drank in the bright 
caress 
As thirstily as would a parched plain, 

That long hath watched the showers of 
sloping gray 

Forever, ever, falling far away. 

XXXII. 

How should she dream of ill ? the heart 
filled quite 
With sunshine, like the shepherd's- 
clock at noon, 
Closesitsleavesarounditswarm delight; 
Whate 'er in life is harsh or out of tune 
Is all shut out, no boding shade of light 
Can pierce the opiate ether of its 
swoon : 
Love is but blind as thoughtful justice is, 
But naught can be so wanton-blind as 
bliss. 



All beauty and all life he was to her ; 
She questioned not his love, she only 
knew 
That she loved him, and not a pulse 
could stir 
In her whole frame but quivered 
through and through 
With this glad thought, and was a 
minister 
To do him fealty and service true, 
Like golden ripples hasting to the land 
To wreck their freight of sunshine on 
the strand. 



O dewy dawn of love ! O hopes that are 
Hung high, like the cliff-swallow's 
perilous nest, 
Most like to fall whenfullest, and that jar 
With every heavier billow ! O unrest 
Than balmiest deepsofquietsweeter far! 
How did ye triumph now in Marga- 
ret's breast, 
Making it readier to shrink and start 
Than quivering gold of the pond-lily's 
heart! 



Here let us pause : O, would the soul 
might ever 
Achieve its immortality in youth, 
When nothing yet hath damped its 
high endeavor 
After the starry energy of truth ! 
Here let uspause, and for a moment sever 
This gleam of sunshine from the days 
unruth 
That sometime come to all, for it is good 
To lengthen to the last a sunny mood. 



PART SECOND. 



As one who, from the sunshine and the 

green, 

Enters the solid darkness of a cave, 

Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen 

May yawn before him with its suddea 

grave, 



2 4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And, with hushed breath, doth often 

forward lean, 
Dreaming he hears the plashing of a 

wave 
Dimly below, or feels a damper air 
From out some dreary chasm, he knows 

not where ; — 

ii. 

So, from the sunshine and the green of 
love, 
We enter on our story's darker part ; 
And, though the horror of it well may 
move 
An impulse ofrepugnance in the heart, 
Yet let us think, that, as there 's naught 
above 
The all-embracing atmosphere of Art, 
So also there is naught that falls below 
Her generous reach, though grimed 
with guilt and woe. 



Her fittest triumph is to show that good 

Lurks in the heart of evil evermore, 
That love, though scorned, and outcast, 
and withstood, 
Can without end forgive, and yet 
have store ; 
God's love and man's are of the self- 
same blood, 
And He can see that always at the door 
Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet 
Knocks to return and cancel all its debt. 



It ever is weak falsehood's destiny 
That her thick mask turns crystal to 
let through 
The unsuspicious eyes of honesty ; 
But Margaret's heart was too sincere 
and true 
Aught but plain truth and faithfulness 
to see, 
And Mordred's for a time a little grew 
To be like hers, won by the mild reproof 
Of those kind eyes that kept all doubt 
aloof. 

v. 
Full oft they rcnt, as dawn and twilight 
meet 
In northern cli.ies; she full of grow- 
ing day 



As he of darkness, which before her feet 

Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, 

Soon to return ; for power had made 

love sweet 

To him, and, when his will had 

gained full sway, 

The taste began to pall ; for never power 

Cansatethehungrysoulbeyond an hour. 



He fell as doth the tempter ever fall, 
Even in the gaining of his loathsome 
end ; 
God doth not work as man works, but 
makes all 
The crooked paths of ill to goodness 
tend ; 
Let him judge Margaret ! If to be the 
thrall 
Of love, and faith too generous to 
defend 
Its very life from him she loved, be sin, 
What hope of grace may the seducer 
win ? 

VII. 

Grim-hearted world, that look'st with 

Levite eyes 
On those poor fallen by too much 

faith in man, 
She that upon thy freezing threshold 

lies, 
Starved to more sinning by thy sav- 
age ban, — 
Seeking that refuge because foulest vice 
More godlike than thy virtue is, 

whose span 
Shuts out the wretched only, — is more 

free 
To enter Heaven than thou wilt ever 

be! 

VIII. 

Thou wilt not let her wash thy dainty 
feet 
With such salt things as tears, or 
with rude hair 
Dry them, soft Pharisee, that sit'st at 
meat 
With him who made her such, and 
speak'st him fair, 
Leaving God's wandering lamb the 
while to bleat 
Unheeded, shivering in the pitiless 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY, 



25 



Thou hast made prisoned virtue show 

more wan 
And haggard than a vice to look upon. 



Now many months flew by, and weary 

grew 
To Margaret the sight of happy 

things ; 
Blight fell on all her flowers, instead 

of dew ; 
Shut round her heart were now the 

joyous wings 
Wherewith it wont to soar ; yet not 

untrue, 
Though tempted much, her woman's 

nature clings 
To its first pure belief, and with sad 

eyes 
Looks backward o'er the gate of Para- 
dise. 



And so, though altered Mordred came 

less oft, 
And winter frowned where spring 

had laughed before, 
In his strange eyes, yet half her sad- 
ness doffed, 
And in her silent patience loved him 

more : 
Sorrow had made her soft heart yet 

more soft, 
And a new life within her own she 

bore 
Which made her tenderer, as she felt 

it move 
Beneath her breast, a refuge for her 

love. 

XI. 

This babe, she thought, would surely 
bring him back, 
And be a bond forever them between ; 
Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack 
Would fade, and leave the face of 
heaven serene ; 
And love's return doth more than fill 
the lack, 
Which in his absence withered the 
heart's green : 
And yet a dim foreboding still would 

flit 
Between her and her hope to darken it. 



She could not figure forth a happy fate, 
Even for this life from heaven so 
newly come ; 
The earth must needs be doubly deso- 
late 
To him scarce parted from a fairer 
home : 
Such boding heavier on her bosom sate 
One night, as, standing in the twi- 
light gloam, 
She strained her eyes beyond that dizzy 

verge 
At whose foot faintly breaks the future's 
surge. 

XIII. 

Poor little spirit ! naught but shame 
and woe 
Nurse the sick heart whose lifeblood 
nurses thine : 
Yet not those only ; love hath tri- 
umphed so, 
As for thy sake makes sorrow more 
divine : 
And yet, though thou be pure, the world 
is foe 
To purity, if born in such a shrine ; 
And, having trampled it for struggling 

thence, 
Smiles to itself, and calls it Providence. 



As thus she mused, a shadow seemed 
to rise 
From out her thought, and turn to 
dreariness 
All blissful hopes and sunny memories, 
And the quick blood would curdle up 
and press 
About her heart, which seemed to shut 
its eyes 
And hush itself, as who with shud- 
dering guess 
Harks through the gloom and dreads 

e'en now to feel 
Through his hot breast the icy slide of 
steel. 

xv. 
But, at that heart-beat, while in dread 
she was, 
In the low wind the honeysuckles 
gleam, 



26 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A dewy thrill flits through the heavy 
grass, 
And, looking forth, she saw, as in a 
dream, 

Within the wood the moonlight's shad- 
owy mass : 
Night's starry heart yearning to hers 
doth seem, 

And the deep sky, full-hearted with the 
moon, 

Folds round her all the happiness of 
June. 

XVI. 

What fear could face a heaven and earth 

like this? 
What silveriest cloud could hang 

'neath such a sky ? 
A tide of wondrous and unwonted bliss 
Rolls back through all her pulses 

suddenly, 
As if some seraph, who had learned to 

kiss 

From the fair daughters of the world 

gone by, 
Had wedded so his fallen light with 

hers, 
Such sweet, strange joy through soul 

and body stirs. 

XVII. 

Now seek we Mordred : he who did 
not fear 
The crime, yet fears the latent con- 
sequence : 

If it should reach a brother Templar's 
ear, 
It haply might be made a good pre- 
tence 

To cheat him of the hope he held most 
dear; 
For he had spared no thought's or 
deed's expense, 

That, by and by might help his wish to 
clip 

Its darling bride, — the high grand- 
mastership. 

xvm. 
The apathy, ere a crime resolved is 
done, 
Is scarce less dreadful than remorse 
for crime ; 



By no allurement can the soul be 

won 
From brooding o'er the weary creep 

of time : 
Mordred stole forth into the happy 

sun, 
Striving to hum a scrap of Breton 

rhyme, 
But the sky struck him speechless, and 

he tried 
In vain to summon up his callous 

pride. 

XIX. 

In the courtyard a fountain leaped al- 
way, 
A Triton blowing jewels through his 
shell 
Into the sunshine ; Mordred turned 
away, 
Weary because the stone face did not 
tell 
Of weariness, nor could he bear to-day, 
Heartsick, to hear the patient sink 
and swell 
Of winds among the leaves, or golden 

bees 
Drowsily humming in the orange-trees. 



All happy sights and sounds now came 
to him 
Like a reproach : he wandered far 
and wide, 
Following the lead of his unquiet whim, 
But still there went a something at 
his side 
That made the cool breeze hot, the 
sunshine dim ; 
It would not flee, it couldnotbedefied, 
He could not see it, but he felt it there, 
By the damp chill that crept among 
his hair. 

XXI. 

Day wore at last; the evening star 
arose, 
And throbbing in the sky grew red 
and set ; 
Then with a guilty, wavenng step he 
goes 
To the hid nook where they so oft 
had met 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 



37 



In happier season, for his heart well 
knows 
That he is sure to find poor Margaret 

Watching and waiting there with love- 
lorn breast 

Around her young dream's rudely 
scattered nest. 



Why follow here that grim old chronicle 
Which counts the dagger-strokes and 
drops of blood ? 
Enough that Margaret by his mad steel 
fell, 
Unmoved by murder from her trust- 
ing mood, 
Smiling on him as Heaven smiles on 
Hell, 
With a sad love, remembering when 
he stood 
Not fallen yet, the unsealer of her heart, 
Of all her holy dreams the holiest part. 



His crime complete, scarce knowing 

what he did, 
(So goes the tale,) beneath the altar 

there 
In the high church the stiffening corpse 

he hid, 
And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, 
Like a scared ghoul out of the porch 

he slid ; 
But his strained eyes saw bloodspots 

everywhere, 
And ghastly faces thrust themselves 

between 
His soul and hopes of peace with blast- 
ing mien. 

XXIV. 

His heart went out within him like a 
spark 
Dropt in the sea ; wherever he made 
bold 
To turn his eyes, he saw, all stiffand stark, 
Pale Margaret lying dead ; the lavish 
gold 
Of her loose hair seemed in the cloudy 
dark 
To spread a glory, and a thousand- 
fold 



More strangely pale and beautiful she 

grew : 
Her silence stabbed his conscience 

through and through : 



Or visionsof past days, — amother'seyes 
That smiled down on the fair boy at 
her knee, 
Whose happy upturned face to hers 
replies, — 
He saw sometimes : or Margaret 
mournfully 
Gazed on him full of doubt, as one who 
tries 
To crush belief that does love injury ; 
Then she would wring her hands, but 

soon again 
Love's patience glimmered out through 
cloudy pain. 

XXVI. 

Meanwhile he dared not go and steal 

away 
The silent, dead-cold witness of his 

sin; 
He had not feared the life, but that dull 

clay, 
Those open eyes that showed the 

death within, 
Would surely stare him mad ; yet all 

the day 
A dreadful impulse, whence his will 

could win 
No refuge, made him linger in the aisle, 
Freezing with his wan look each greet- 
ing smile. 

XXVII. 

Now, on the second day there was to be 
A festival in church: from far and 
near 
Came flocking m the sunburnt peas- 
antry, 
And knights and dames with stately 
antique cheer, 
Blazing with pomp, as if all faerie 
Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as 
it were, 
The illuminated marge of some old book, 
While we were gazing, life and motion 
took. 



28 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



XXVIII. 

When all were entered, and the roving 
eyes 
Of all were stayed, some upon faces 
bright, 
Some on the priests, some on the traceries 
That decked the slumber of a marble 
knight, 
And all the rustlings over that arise 

From recognizing tokens of delight, 
When friendly glances meet, — then 

silent ease 
Spread o'er the multitude by slow de- 
grees. 

XXIX. 

Then swelled the organ : up through 
choir and nave 
The music trembled with an inward 
m thrill 
Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on 
wave 
Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until 
The hushed air shivered with the throb 
it gave, 
Then, poising for a moment, it stood 
still, 
Andsankandroseagain, to burst in spray 
That wandered into silence far away. 



Like to a mighty heart the music seemed, 
That yearns with melodies it cannot 
speak, 
Until, in grand despair of what it 
dreamed, 
In the agony of effort it doth break, 
Yet triumphs breaking ; on it rushed 
and streamed 
And wantoned in its might, as when 
a lake, 
Long pent among the mountains, bursts 

its walls 
And in one crowding gush leaps forth 
and falls. 



Deeper and deeper shudders shook the 
air, 
As the huge bass kept gathering 
heavily, 
Like thunder when it rouses in its lair, 
And with its hoarse growl shakes the 
low-hung sky, 



It grew up like a darkness everywhere, 
Filling the vast cathedral ; — sud- 
denly, 

From the dense mass a boy's clear 
treble broke 

Like lightning, and the full-toned choir 
awoke. 

XXXII. 

Through gorgeous windows shone the 
sun aslant, 
Brimming the church with gold and 
purple mist, 
Meet atmosphere to bosom that rich 
chant, 
Where fifty voices in one strand did 
twist, 
Their varicoloredtones, and left no want 
To the delighted soul, which sank 
abyssed 
In the warm music cloud, while, far 

below, 
The organ heaved its surges to and fro. 

XXXIII. 

As if a lark should suddenly drop dead 
While the blue air yet trembled with 

its song, 
So snapped at once that music's golden 

thread, 
Struck by a nameless fear that leapt 

along 
From heart to heart, and like a shadow 

spread 
With instantaneous shiver through 

the throng, 
So that some glanced behind, as half 

aware 
A hideous shape of dread were stand- 
ing there. 



As when a crowd of pale men gather 
round, 
Watching an eddy in the leaden deep, 
From which they deem the body of one 
drowned 
Will be cast forth, from face to face 
doth creep 
An eager dread that holds all tongues 
fast bound 
Until the horror, with a ghastly leap, 



A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. 



29 



Starts up, its dead blue arms stretched 
aimlessly, 

Heaved with the swinging of the care- 
less sea, — 



So in the faces of all these there grew, 
As by one impulse, a dark, freezing 
awe, 
Which, with a fearful fascination drew 
All eyes toward the altar ; damp and 
raw 
The air grew suddenly, and no man 
knew 
Whether perchance his silent neigh- 
bor saw 
The dreadful thing which all were sure 

would rise 
To scare the strained lids wider from 
their eyes. 

xxxvi. 
The incense trembled as it upward sent 
Its slow, uncertain thread of wander- 
ing blue, 
As 'twere the only living element 
In all the church, so deep the still- 
ness grew ; 
It seemed one might have heard it, as 
it went, 
Give out an audible rustle, curling 
through 
The midnight silence of that awe-struck 

air, 
More hushed than death, though so 
much life was there. 

xxxvii. 
Nothing they saw, but a low voice was 
heard 
Threading the ominous silence of 
that fear, 
Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, 
Wakened by some volcano's glare, 
should cheer 
The murk air with his song ; yet every 
word 
In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed 
near, 
As if it spoke to every one apart, 
Like the clear voice of conscience in 
each heart. 



" O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most 
dear ! 
O Silence, after life's bewildering din, 
Thou art most welcome, whether in the 
sear 
Days of our age thou comest, or we 
win 
Thy poppy-wreath in youth ! then 
wherefore here 
Linger I yet, once free to enter in 
At that wished gate which gentle 

Death doth ope, 
Into the boundless realm of strength 
and hope ? 

xxxix. 

" Think not in death my love could 
ever cease ; 
If thou wast false, more need there 
is for me 
Still to be true ; that slumber were not 
peace, 
If 't were unvisited with dreams of 
thee : 
And thou hadst never heard such words 
as these, 
Save that in heaven I must ever be 
Most comfortless and wretched, seeing 

this 
Our unbaptized babe shut out from bliss. 

XL. 

" This little spirit with imploring eyes 
Wanders alone the dreary wild of 
space ; 
The shadow of his pain forever lies 
Upon my soul in this new dwelling- 
place ; 
His loneliness makes me in Paradise 
More lonely, and, unless I see his 
face, 
Even here for grief could I lie down 

and die, 
Save for my curse of immortality. 

XLI. 

" World after world he sees around him 
swim 
Crowded with happy souls, that take 
no heed 



3° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Of the sad eyes that from the night's 

faint rim 
Gaze sick with longing on them as 

they speed 
With golden gates, that only shut out 

him ; 
And shapes sometimes from Hell's 

abysses freed 
Flap darkly by him, with enormous 

sweep 
Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy 

deep. 

XLII. 

"lama mother, — spirits do not shake 
This much of earth from them, — 
and I must pine 
Till I can feel his little hands, and take 
His weary head upon this heart of 
mine ; 
And, might it be, full gladly for his 
sake 
Would I this solitude of bliss resign, 
And be shut out of Heaven to dwell 

with him 
Forever in that silence drear and dim. 

XLIII. 

" I strove to hush my soul, and would 

not speak 
At first, for thy dear sake ; a woman's 

love 
Is mighty, but a mother's heart is weak, 
And by its weakness overcomes ; I 

strove 
To smother bitter thoughts with pa- 
tience meek, 
But still in the abyss my soul would 

rove, 
Seeking my child, and drove me here 

to claim 
The rite that gives him peace in Christ's 

dear name. 

XLIV. 

" I sit and weep while blessed spirits 
sing; 
I can but long and pine the while they 
praise, 
And, leaning o'er the wall of Heaven, 
I fling 
My voice to where I deem my infant 
strays, 



Like a robbed bird that cries in vain to 

bring 
Hernestlings back beneath her wings' 

embrace ; 
But still he answers not, and I but know 
That Heaven and earth are both alike 

in woe." 



Then the pale priests, with ceremony 
due, 
Baptized the child within its dread- 
ful tomb 

Beneath that mother's heart, whose in- 
stinct true 
Star-like had battled down the triple 
gloom 

Of sorrow, love, and death : young 
maidens, too, 
Strewed the pale corpse with many 
a milkwhite bloom, 

And parted the bright hair, and on the 
breast 

Crossed the unconscious hands in sign 
of rest. 



Some said, that, when the priest had 
sprinkled o'er 
The consecrated drops, they seemed 
to hear 
A sigh, as of some heart from travail 
sore 
Released, and then two voices sing- 
ing clear, 
Misereatur Deus, more and more 
Fading far upward, and their ghastly 
fear 
Fell from them with that sound, as 

bodies fall 
From souls upspringing to celestial hall. 



PROMETHEUS. 

One after one the stars have risen 

and set, 
Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my 

chain : 
The Bear, that prowled all night about 

the fold 



PROMETHEUS. 



Of the North-star, hath shrunk into 

his den, 
Scared by the blithesome footsteps of 

the Dawn, 
Whose blushing smile floods all the 

Orient ; 
And now bright Lucifer grows less and 

less, 
Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-with- 
drawn. 
Sunless and starless all, the desert sky 
Arches above me, empty as this heart 
For ages hath been empty of all joy, 
Except to brood upon its silent hope, 
As o'er its hope of day the sky doth 

now. 
All night have I heard voices : deeper 

yet 
The deep low breathing of the silence 

grew, 
While all about, muffled in awe, there 

stood 
Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt 

at heart, 
But, when I turned to front them, far 

along 
Only a shudder through the midnight 

ran, 
And the dense stillness walled me 

closer round. 
But still I heard them wander up and 

down 
That solitude, and flappings of dusk 

wings 
Did mingle with them, whether of 

those hags 
Let slip upon me once from Hades deep, 
Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 
I could but guess ; and then toward me 

came 
A shape as of a woman : very pale 
It was, and calm ; its cold eyes did not 

move, 
And mine moved not, but only stared 

on them. 
Their fixed awe went through my brain 

like ice ; 
A skeleton hand seemed clutching at 

my heart, 
And a sharp chill, as if a dank night 

fog 
Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt : 
And then, methought, I heard a freez- 
ing sigh, 



A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from 

blue lips 
Stiffening in death, close to mine ear- 

I thought 
Some doom was close upon me, and I 

looked 
And saw the red moon through the 

heavy mist, 
Just setting, and it seemed as it were 

falling, 
Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead 
And palsy-struck it looked. Then all 

sounds merged 
Into the rising surges of the pines, 
Which, leagues below me, clothing the 

gaunt loins 
Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, 
Sent up a murmur in the morning 

wind, 
Sad as the wail that from the populous 

earth 
All day and night to high Olympus 

soars, 
Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O 

Jove ! 

Thy hated name is tossed once more 
in scorn 

From off my lips, for I will tell thy 
doom. 

And are these tears ? Nay, do not tri- 
umph, Jove ! 

They are wrung from me but by the 
agonies 

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops 
which fall 

From clouds in travail of the lightning, 
when 

The great wave of the storm high- 
curled and black 

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous 
break. 

Why art thou made a god of, thou poor 
type 

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning 
force ? 

True Power was never born of brutish 
Strength, 

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy 
dugs 

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunder- 
bolts, 

That quell the darkness for a space, so 
strong 



32 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



As the prevailing patience of meek 

Light, 
Who, with the invincible tenderness 

of peace, 
Wins it to be a portion of herself? 
Why art thou made a god of, thou, who 

hast 
The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, 
That birthright of all tyrants, worse to 

bear 
Than this thy ravening bird on which 

I smile ? 
Thou swear'st to free me, if I will un- 
fold 
What kind of doom it is whose omen 

flits 
Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of 

doves 
The fearful shadow of the kite. What 

need 
To know that truth whose knowledge 

cannot save ? 
Evil its errand hath, as well as Good ; 
When thine is finished, thou art known 

no more : 
There is a higher purity than thou, 
And higher purity is greater strength ; 
Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy 

heart 
Trembles behind the thick wall of thy 

might. 
Let man but hope, and thou art straight- 
way chilled 
With thought of that drear silence and 

deep night 
Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee 

and thine : 
Let man but will, and thou art god no 

more, 
More capable of ruin than the gold 
And ivory that image thee on earth. 
He who hurled down the monstrous 

Titan-brood 
Blinded with lightnings, with rough 

thunders stunned, 
Is weaker than a simple human thought. 
My slender voice can shake thee, as the 

breeze, 
That seems but apt to stir a maiden's 

hair, 
Sways huge Oceanusfrom pole to pole : 
For I am still Prometheus, and fore- 
know 
In my wise heart the end and doom of all. 



Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser 
grown 

By years of solitude, — that holds apart 

The past and future, giving the soul 
room 

To search into itself, — and long com- 
mune 

With this eternal silence ; — more a 
god, 

In my long-suffering and strength to 
meet 

With equal front the direst shafts of 
fate, 

Than thou in thy faint-hearted despot- 
ism, 

Girt with thy baby-toys of force and 
wrath. 

Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought 
down 

The light toman, which thou, in selfish 
fear, 

Hadst to thyself usurped, — his by sole 
right, 

For Man hath right to all save Tyr- 
anny, — 

And which shall free him yet from thy 
frail throne. 

Tyrants are but the spawn of Igno- 
rance, 

Begotten by the slaves they trample on, 

Who, could they win a glimmer of the 
light, 

And see that Tyranny is always weak- 
ness, 

Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, 

Would laugh away in scorn the sand- 
wove chain 

Which their own blindness feigned for 
adamant. 

Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but 
the Right 

To the firm centre lays its moveless 
base. 

The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs 

The innocent ringlets of a child's free 
hair, 

And crouches, when the thought of 
some great spirit, 

With world-wide murmur, like a rising 
gale, 

Over men's hearts, as over standing 
corn, 

Rushes, and bends them to its own 
strong will. 



PROMETHEUS. 



33 



So shall some thought of mine yet cir- 
cle earth, 

And puff away thy crumbling altars, 
Jove ! 

And, wouldst thou know of my su- 
preme revenge, 
Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in 

heart, 
Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, 
Listen ! and tell me if this bitter peak, 
This never-glutted vulture, and these 

chains 
Shrink not before it ; for it shall befit 
A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan- 
heart. 
Men, when their death is on them, seem 

to stand 
On a precipitous crag that overhangs 
The abyss of doom, and in that depth 

to see, 
As in a glass, the features dim and vast 
Of things to come, the shadows, as it 

seems, 
Of what have been. Death ever fronts 

the wise ; 
Not fearfully, but with clear promises 
Of larger life, on whose broad vans up- 
borne, 
Their outlook widens, and they see 

beyond 
The horizon of the Present and the Past, 
Even to the very source and end of 

things. 
Sucham I now : immortal woe hath made 
My heart a seer, and my soul a judge 
Between the substance and the shadow 

of Truth. 
The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, 
By all the martyrdoms made doubly 

sure 
Of such as I am, this is my revenge, 
Which of my wrongs builds a trium- 
phal arch, 
Through which I see a sceptre and a 

throne. 
The pipings of glad shepherds on the 

_ hills, 
Tending the flocks no more to bleed for 

thee, — 
The songs of maidens pressing with 

white feet 
The vintage on thine altars poured no 
more, — 

3 



The murmurous bliss of lovers, under- 
neath 
Dim grapevine bowers, whose rosy 

bunches press 
Not half so closely their warm cheeks, 

un paled 
By thoughts of thy brute lust, — the 

hive-like hum 
Of peaceful commonwealths, where 

sunburnt Toil 
Reaps for itself the rich earth made its 

own 
By its own labor, lightened with glad 

hymns 
To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts 
Would cope with as a spark with the 

vast sea, — 
Even the spirit of free love and peace, 
Duty's sure recompense through life 

and death, — 
These are such harvests as all master- 
spirits 
Reap, haply not onearth, butreapno less 
Because the sheaves are bound by hands 

not theirs ; 
These are the bloodless daggers where- 
withal 
They stab fallen tyrants, this their high 

revenge : 
For their best partof lifeonearthiswhen, 
Long after death, prisoned and pent no 

more, 
Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, 

have become 
Part of the necessary air men breathe ; 
When, like the moon, herself behind a 

cloud, 
They shed down light before us on life's 

sea, 
That cheers us to steer onward still in 

hope. 
Earth with her twining memories ivies 

o'er 
Their holy sepulchres; the chainless 

sea, 
In tempest or wide calm, repeats their 

thoughts ; 
The lightning and the thunder, all free 

things, 
Have legendsof them for theearsofmen. 
All other glories are as falling stars, 
But universal Nature watches theirs : 
Such strength is won by love of human 

kind 



34 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Not that I feel that hunger after fame, 
Which souls of a half-greatness are 

beset with ; 
But that the memory of noble deeds 
Cries shame upon the idle and the vile, 
And keeps the heart of Man forever up 
To the heroic level of old time. 
To be forgot at first is little pain 
To a heart conscious of such high intent 
As must be deathless on the lips of 

men ; 
But, having been a name, to sink and be 
A something which the world can do 

without, 
Which, having been or not, would 

never change 
The lightest pulse of fate, — thisis indeed 
A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, 
And this thy heart shall empty to the 

dregs. 
Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, 
And memory thy vulture ; thou wilt find 
Oblivion far lonelier than this peak, — 
Behold thy destiny ! Thou think'st it 

much 
That I should brave thee, miserable 

god! 
But I have braved a mightier than 

thou, 
Even the tempting of this soaring heart, 
Which might have made me, scarcely 

less than thou, 
A god among my brethren weak and 

blind, — 
Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing 
To be down -trodden into darkness 

soon. 
But now I am above thee, for thou art 
The bungling workmanship of fear, the 

block 
That awes the swart Barbarian ; but I 
Am what myself have made, — a nature 

wise 
With finding in itself the types of all, — 
With watching from the dim verge of 

the time 
Whatthingstobearevisibleinthegleams 
Thrown forward on them from the 

luminous past, — 
Wise with thehistoryofitsownfrailheart, 
With reverence and sorrow, and with 

love, 
Broad as the world, for freedom and for 

man. 



Thou and all strength shall crumble, 

except Love, ' 
By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall 

cease : 
And, when thou art but a dim moaning 

heard 
From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I 
Shall be a power and a memory, 
A name to fright all tyrants with, alight 
Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice 
Heardinthe breathless pausesofthe fight 
By truth and freedom ever waged with 

wrong, 
Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake 
Huge echoes that from age to age live on 
In kindred spirits, giving them a sense 
Of boundless power from boundless 

suffering wrung : 
And many a glazingeye shall smile to see 
The memory of my triumph (for to meet 
Wrong with endurance, and to overcome 
The present with a heart that looks 

beyond, 
Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch 
Upon the sacred banner of the Right. 
Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears 

no seed, 
And feeds the green earth with its swift 

m decay, 
Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; 
But Good, once put in action or in 

thought, 
Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs 

shed down 
The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, 

weak god, 
Shalt fade and be forgotten ! but this soul, 
Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, 
Ineveryheavingshallpartake, that grows 
From heart to heart among the sons of 

men, — 
As the ominous hum before the earth- 
quake runs 
Far through the iEgean from roused 

isle to isle, — 
Foreboding wreck topalacesand shrines, 
And mighty rents in many a cavernous 

error 
That darkens the free light to man : — 

This heart, 
Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the 

truth 
Grows but more lovely 'neath the beak* 

and claws 



PROMETHEUS. 



35 



Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, 

shall 
In all the throbbing exultations share 
That wait on freedom's triumphs, and 

in all 
Thegloriousagoniesofmartyr-spirits, — 
Sharp iightning-throes to split the 

jagged clouds 
That veil the future, showing them the 

end, — 
Pain's thorny crown for constancy and 

truth, 
Girdingthetempleslikea wreath of stars. 
This is a thought, that, like the fabled 

laurel, 
Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy 

dread bolts 
Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow 
On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus : 
But, O thought far more blissful, they 

can rend 
This cloud of flesh, and make my soul 

a star ! 

Unleash thy crouching thunders now, 

O Jove ! 
Free this high heart, which, a poor 

captive long, 
Doth knock to be let forth, this heart 

which still, 
In its invincible manhood, overtops 
Thy puny godship, as this mountain 

doth 
The pines that moss its roots. O, even 

now, 
While from my peak of suffering I look 

down, 
Beholding with a far-spread gush of 

hope 
The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose 

face, 
Shone all around with love, no man 

shall look 
But straightway like a god he is uplift 
Unto the throne long empty for his 

sake, 
And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide 

dreams 
By his free inward nature, which nor 

thou, 
Nor any anarch after thee, can bind 
From working its great doom, — now, 

now set free 
This essence, not to die, but to become 



Part of that awful Presence which doth 

haunt 
The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, 
With its grim eyes and fearful whisper- 
ings 
And hideous sense of utter loneliness, 
All hope of safety, all desire of peace, 
All but the loathed forefeeling of blank 

death, — 
Part of that spirit which doth ever brood 
In patient calm on the unpilfered nest 
Of man's deep heart, till mighty 

thoughts grow fledged 
To sail with darkening shadow o'er 

the world, 
Filling with dread such souls as dare 

not trust 
In the unfailing energy of Good, 
Until they swoop, and their pale quarry 

make 
Of some o'erbloated wrong, — that 

spirit which 
Scatters great hopes in the seed-field 

of man, 
Like acorns among grain, to grow and 

be 
A roof for freedom in all coming time ! 

But no, this cannot be ; for ages yet, 
In solitude unbroken, shall I hear 
The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout. 
And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, 
On either side storming the giant walls 
Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing 

foam 
(Less, from my height, than flakes of 

downy snow\ 
That draw back baffled but to hurl again, 
Snatched up in wrath and horrible tur- 
moil, 
Mountain on mountain, as the Titans 

erst, 
My brethren, scaling the high seat of 

Jove a 
Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders 

broad 
In vain emprise. The moon will come 

and go 
With her monotonous vicissitude ; 
Once beautiful, when I was free to walk 
Among my fellows, and to interchange 
The influence benign of loving eyes, 
But now by aged use grown weari- 
some ; — 



36 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



False thought ! most false ! for how 

could I endure 
These crawling centuries of lonely woe 
Unshamed by weak complaining, but 

for thee, 
Loneliest, save me, of all created things, 
Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, 
With thy pale smile of sad benignity? 

Year after year will pass away and 

seem 
To me, in mine eternal agony, 
But as the shadows of dumb summer 

clouds, 
Which I have watched so often darken- 
ing o'er 
The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide 

at first, 
But, with still swiftness, lessening on 

and on 
Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle 

where 
The gray horizon fades into the sky, 
Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages 

yet 
Must I lie here upon my altar huge, 
A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be, 
As it hath been, his portion ; endless 

doom, 
While the immortal with the mortal 

linked 
Dreams of its wings and pines for what 

it dreams, 
With upward yearn unceasing. Better 

so : 
For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient 

child, 
And empire over self, and all the 

deep 
Strong charities that make men seem 

like gods ; 
And love, that makes them be gods, 

from her breasts 
Sucks in the milk that makes mankind 

one blood. 
Good never comes unmixed, or so it 

seems, 
Having two faces, as some images 
Are carved, of foolish gods ; one face 

is ill ; 
But one heart lies beneath, and that is 

good, 
As are all hearts, when we explore their 

depths. 



Therefore, great heart, bear up ! thou 

art but type 
Of what all lofty spirits endure, that 

fain 
Would win men back to strength and. 

peace through love : 
Each hath his lonely peak, and on each 

heart 
Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong 
With vulture beak ; yet the high soul 

is left ; 
And faith, which is but hope grown 

wise ; and love 
And patience, which at last shall over- 
come. 
1843. 



SONG. 

Violet ! sweet violet ! 
Thine eyes are full of tears ; 
Are they wet 
Even yet 
With the thought of other years? 
Or with gladness are they full, 
For the night so beautiful, 
And longing for those far-off spheres ? 

Loved one of my youth thou wast, 
Of my merry youth, 
And I see, 
Tearfully, 
All the fair and sunny past, 
All its openness and truth, 
Ever fresh and green in thee 
As the moss is in the sea. 

Thy little heart, that hath with love 
Grown colored like the sky above, 
On which thou lookest ever, — 
Can it know 
All the woe 
Of hope for what returneth never, 
All the sorrow and the longing 
To these hearts of ours belonging ? 

Out on it ! no foolish pining 

For the sky 

Dims thine eye, 
Or for the stars so calmly shining ; 
Like thee let this soul of mine 
Take hue from that wherefor I long, 



ROSALINE. 



37 



Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, 
Not satisfied with hoping — but divine. 

Violet ! dear violet ! 

Thy blue eyes are only wet 
With joy and love of Him who sent thee, 
And for the fulfilling sense 
Of that glad obedience 
Which made thee all that Nature meant 
thee ! 

1841. 



ROSALINE. 

Thou look'dst on me all yesternight. 
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright 
As when we murmured our troth-plight 
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline ! 
Thy hair was braided on thy head, 
As on the day we two were wed, 
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert 

dead, — 
But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline ! 

Thedeath-watch ticked behind the wall, 
The blackness rustled like a pall, 
The moaning wind did rise and fall 
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline ! 
My heart beat thickly in mine ears : 
The lids may shut out fleshly fears, 
But still the spirit sees and hears, — 
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline ! 

A wildness rushing suddenly, 

A knowing some ill shape is nigh, 

A wish for death, a fear to die, — 

Is not this vengeance, Rosaline? 

A loneliness that is not lone, 

A love quite withered up and gone, 

A strong soul trampled from itsthrone, — 

What wouldst thou further, Rosaline? 

'Tis drear such moonlessnightsas these, 
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, 
And the leaves shiver in the trees, 
And then thou comest, Rosaline ! 
I seem to hear the mourners go, 
With long black garments trailing slow, 
And plumes anodding to and fro, 
As once 1 heard them, Rosaline ! 

Thy shroud is all of snowy white, 
And, in the middle of the night, 
Thou standest moveless and upright, 



Gazing upon me, Rosaline ! 
There is no sorrow in thine eyes, 
But evermore that meek surprise, — 

God ! thy gentle spirit tries 
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline ! 

Above thy grave the robin sings, 

And swarms of bright and happy things 

Flit all about with sunlit wings, — 

But I am cheerless, Rosaline \ 

The violets on the hillock toss, 

The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss; 

For nature feels not any loss, — 

But I am cheerless, Rosaline* ! 

1 did not know when thou wast dead ; 
A blackbird whistling overhead 
Thrilled through my brain; I would 

have fled, 
But dared not leave thee, Rosaline ! 
The sun rolled down, and very soon, 
Like a gjeat fire, the awful moon 
Rose, stained with blood, and then a 

swoon 
Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline ! 

The stars came out ; and, one by one, 
Each angel from his silver throne 
Looked down and saw what I had done : 
I dared not hide me, Rosaline ! 
I crouched ; Ifeared thy corpse would cry 
Against me to God's quiet sky, 
I thought I saw the blue lips try 
To utter something, Rosaline ! 

I waited with a maddened grin 

To hear that voice all icy thin 

Slide forth and tell my deadly sin 

To hell and heaven, Rosaline ! 

But no voice came, and then it seemed, 

That, if the very corpse had screamed, 

The sound like sunshine glad had 

streamed 
Through that dark stillness, Rosaline ! 

And then, amid the silent night, 
I screamed with horrible delight, 
And in my brain an awful light 
Did seem to crackje, Rosaline ! 
It is my curse ! sweet memories fall 
From me like snow, — and only all 
Of that one night, like cold worms, crawl 
My doomed heart over, Rosaline ! 



38 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, 
Wherein such blessed memories, 
Such pitying forgiveness lies, ^ 
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ? 
Woe 's me ! I know that love so high 
As thine, true soul, could never die, 
And with mean clayinchurchyardlie, — 
Would it might be so, Rosaline ! 



THE SHEPHERD OF KING 
ADMETUS. 

There came a youth upon the earth, 

Some thousand years ago, 
Whose slender hands were nothing 

worth, 
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. 

Upon an empty tortoise-shell 

He stretched some chords, and drew 
Music that made men's bosoms swell 
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with 
dew. 

Then King Admetus, one who had 

Pure taste by right divine, 
Decreed his singing not too bad 
To hear between the cups of wine : 

And so, well pleased with being soothed 

Into a sweet half-sleep, 
Three times his kingly beard he 

smoothed, 
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. 

His words were simple words enough, 

And yet he used them so, 
That what in other mouths was rough 
In his seemed musical and low. 

Men called him but a shiftless youth, 

In whom no good they saw ; 
And yet, unwittingly, in truth, 
They made his careless words their law. 

They knew not how he learned at all, 

For idly, hour by hour, 
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, 
Or mused upon a common flower. 

It seemed the loveliness of things 
Did teach him all their use, 



For, in mere weeds, and stones, and 

springs, 
He found a healing power profuse. 

Men granted that his speech was wise, 

But, when a glance they caught 
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, 
They laughed, and called him good-for- 
naught. 

Yet after he was dead and gone, 

And e'en his memory dim, 
Earth seemed more sweet to live tupon* 
More full of love, because of him. 

And day by day more holy grew 
Each spot where he had trod, 
Till after-poets only knew 
Their first-born brother as a god. 



THE TOKEN. 

It is a mere wild rosebud, 

Quite sallow now, and dry, 
Yet there 's something wondrousin it, — 

Some gleams of days gone by, — 
Dear sights and sounds that are to me 
The very moons of memory, 
And stir my heart's blood far below 
Its short-lived waves of joy and woe. 

Lips must fade and roses wither, 

All sweet times be o'er, — 
They only smile, and, murmuring 
" Thither ! " 

Stay with us no more : 
And yet ofttimes a look or smile, 
Forgotten in a kiss's while, 
Years after from the dark will start, 
And flash across the trembling heart. 

Thou hast given me many roses, 

But never one, like this, 
O'erfloods both sense and spirit 

With such a deep, wild bliss ; 
We must have instincts that glean up 
Sparse drops of this life in the cup, 
Whose taste shall give us all that we 
Can prove of immortality. 

Earth's stablest things are shadows, 
And, in the life to come, 



AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 



39 



Hapiy some chance-saved trifle 

May tell of this old home : 
As now sometimes we seem to find, 
In a d#rk crevice of the mind, 
Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, 
Hints faintly at a life before. 



AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD 
CAR. 

He spoke of Burns : men rude and 

rough 
Pressed roundtohearthe praiseof one 
Whose heart was made of manly, simple 
stuff, 
As homespun as their own. 

And, when he read, they forward 

leaned, 
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, 
His brook-like songs whom glory never 
weaned 
From humble smiles and tears. 

Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, 
As if in him who read they felt and saw 
Some presence of the bard. 

It was a sight for sin and wrong 
And slavish tyranny to see, 
A sight to make our faith more pure and 
strong 
In high humanity. 

I thought, these men will carry hence 
Promptings their former life above, 
And something of a finer reverence 
For beauty, truth, and love. 

God scatters love on every side, 
Freely among his children all, 
And always hearts are lying open wide, 
Wherein some grains may fall. 

There is no wind but soweth seeds 
Of a more true and open life, 
Which burst, unlooked for, into high- 
souled deeds, 
With wayside beauty rife. 



We find within these souls of ours 

Some wild germs of a higher birth, 

Which in the poet's tropic heart bear 

flowers 

Whose fragrance fills the earth. 

Within the hearts of all men lie 
These promises of wider bliss, 
Which blossom into hopes that cannot 
die, 
In sunny hours like this. 

All that hath been majestical 
In life or death, since time began, 
Is native in the simple heart of all, 
The angel heart of man. 

And thus, among the untaught poor, 
Great deeds and feelings find a home, 
That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
Of classic Greece and Rome. 

O, mighty brother-soul of man, 
Where'er thou art, in low or high, 
Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
O'er-roof infinity 1 

All thoughts that mould the age begin 
Deep down within the primitive soul, 
And from the many slowly upward win 
To one who grasps the whole : 

In his wide brain the feeling deep 
That struggled on the many's tongue 
Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges 
leap 
O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 

All thought begins in feeling, — wide 
In the great mass its base is hid, 
And, narrowing up to thought, stands 
glorified, 
A moveless pyramid. 

Nor is he far astray who deems 
That every hope, which rises and 
grows broad 
In the world's heart, by ordered im- 
pulse streams 
From the great heart of God. 

God wills, man hopes: in common souls 
Hope is but vague and undefined, 



4° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Till from the poet's tongue the message 
rolls 
A blessing to his kind. 

Never did Poesy appear 
So full of heaven to me, as when 
I saw how it would pierce through pride 
and fear 
To the lives of coarsest men. 

It may be glorious to write 
Thoughts that shall glad the two or 
three 
High souls, like those far stars that 
come in sight 
Once in a century ; — 

But better far it is to speak 
One simple word, which now and then 
Shall waken their free nature in the 
weak 
And friendless sons of men ; 

To write some earnest verse or line, 
Which, seeking not the praise of art, 
Shall make a clearer faith and manhood 
shine 
In the untutored heart. 

He who doth this, in verse or prose, 
May be forgotten in his day, 
But surely shall be crowned at last with 
those 
Who live and speak for aye. 
1842. 



RHCECUS. 

God sends his teachers unto every age, 
To every clime, and every race of men, 
With revelations fitted to their growth 
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm 

of Truth 
Into the selfish rule of one sole race : 
Therefore each form of worship that 

hath swayed 
The life of man, and given it to grasp 
The master-key of knowledge, rever- 
ence, 
Infolds some, germs of goodness and 

of right ; 
Else never had the eager soul, which 
loathes 



The slothful down of pampered igno- 
rance, 
Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. 

There is an instinct in the human 

heart 
Which makes that all the fables it hath 

coined, 
To justify the reign of its belief 
And strengthen it by beauty's right 

divine, 
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful 

hands, 
Points surely to the hidden springs of 

truth. 
For, as in nature naught is made in 

vain, 
But all things have within their hull of 

use 
A wisdom and a meaning which may 

speak 
Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, 
To make its inspirations suit its creed, 
And from the niggard hands of false- 
hood wring 
Its needful food of truth, there ever is 
A sympathy with Nature, which re- 
veals, 
Not less than her own works, pure 

gleams of light 
And earnest parables of inward lore. 
Hear now this fairy legend of old 

Greece, 
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty 

still 
As the immortal freshness of that grace 
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. 

A youth named Rhoecus, wandering 
in the wood, 

Saw an old oak just trembling to its 
fall, 

And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, 

He propped its gray trunk with admir- 
ing care, 

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered 
on. 

But, as he turned, he heard a voice be- 
hind 

That murmured " Rhoecus ! " 'T was 
as if the leaves, 



RHCECUS. 



4i 



Stirred by a passing breath, had mur- 
mured it, 

And, while he paused bewildered, yet 
again 

It murmured " Rhcecus ! " softer than 
a breeze. 

He started and beheld with dizzy eyes 

What seemed the substance of a happy 
dream 

Stand there before him, spreading a 
warm glow 

Within the green glooms of the shad- 
owy oak. 

It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too 
fair 

To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 

For any that were wont to mate with 
gods. 

All naked like a goddess stood she 
there, 

And like a goddess all too beautiful 

To feel the guilt-born earthliness of 
shame. 

" Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," 

Thus she began, dropping her low- 
toned words 

Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of 
dew, 

" And with it I am doomed to live and 
die ; 

The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 

Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 

Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can 
give, 

And with a thankful joy it shall be 
thine." 

Then Rhcecus, with a flutter at the 

heart, 
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, 

bold, 
Answered : " What is there that can 

satisfy 
The endless craving of the soul but 

love? 
Give me thy love, or but the hope of 

that 
Which must be evermore my spirit's 

goal." 
After a little pause she said again, 
But with a glimpse of sadness in her 

tone, 
" I give it, Rhcecus, though a perilous 

gift; 



An hour before the sunset meet me 
here." 

And straightway there was nothing he 
could see 

But the green glooms beneath the shad- 
owy oak, 

And not a sound came to his straining 
ears 

But the low trickling rustle of the 
leaves, 

And far away upon an emerald slope 

The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. 

Now, in those days of simpleness and 

faith, 
Men did not think that happy things 

were dreams 
Because they overstepped the narrow 

bourne 
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed 
Nothing too wondrous or too beauti- 
ful 
To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 
So Rhcecus made no doubt that he was 

blest, 
And all along unto the city's gate 
Earth seemed to spring beneath him as 

he walked, 
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than 

its wont, 
And he could scarce believe he had not 

wings, 
Such sunshine seemed to glitter through 

his veins 
Instead of blood, so light he felt and 

strange. 

Young Rhcecus had a faithful heart 
enough, 

But one that in the present dwelt too 
much, 

And, taking with blithe welcome what- 
soe'er 

Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound 
in that, 

Like the contented peasant of a 
vale, 

Deemed it the world, and never looked 
beyond. 

So, haply meeting in the afternoon 

Some comrades who were playing at 
the dice, 

He joined them, and forgot all else be- 
side. 



4* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The dice were rattling at the mer- 
riest, 

And Rhcecus, who had met but sorry 
luck, 

Just laughed in triumph at a happy 
throw, 

When through the room there hummed 
a yellow bee 

That buzzed about his ear with down- 
dropped legs 

As if to light. And Rhcecus laughed 
and said, 

Feeling how red and flushed he was 
with loss, 

" By Venus ! does he take me for a 
rose ? " 

And brushed him off with rough, im- 
patient hand. 

But still the bee came back, and thrice 
again 

Rhcecus did beat him off with growing 
wrath. 

Then through the window flew the 
wounded bee, 

And Rhcecus, tracking him with angry 
eyes, 

Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly 

Against the red disk of the setting 
# sun, — 

And instantly the blood sank from his 
heart, 

As if its very walls had caved away. 

Without a word he turned, and, rush- 
ing forth, 

Ran madly through the city and the 
gate, 

And o'er the plain, which now the 
wood's long shade, 

By the low sun thrown forward broad 
and dim, 

Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall. 

Quite spent and out of breath he 
reached the tree, 

And, listening fearfully, he heard once 
more 

The low voice murmur " Rhcecus ! " 
close at hand : 

Whereat he looked around him, but 
could see 

Naught but the deepening glooms be- 
neath the oak. 

Then sighed the voice, "O Rhcecus! 
nevermore 



Shalt thou behold me or by day or 

night, 
Me, who would fain have blessed thee 

with a love 
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
Filled up with nectar any mortal heart : 
But thou didst scorn my humble mes- 
senger, 
And sent'st him back to me with 

bruised wings. 
We spirits only show to gentle eyes, 
We ever ask an undivided love. 
And he who scorns the least of Nature's 

works 
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from 

all. 
Farewell ! for thou canst never see me 

more." 

Then Rhcecus beat his breast, and 

groaned aloud, 
And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet 
This once, and I shall never need it 

more ! " 
" Alas ! " the voice returned, " 't is 

thou art blind, 
Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, 
But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; 
Only the soul hath power o'er itself." 
With that again there murmured 

" Nevermore ! " 
And Rhcecus after heard no other sound, 
Except the rattling of the oak's crisp 

leaves, 
Like the long surf upon a distant shore, 
Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and 

down. 
The night had gathered round him ; 

o'er the plain 
The city sparkled with its thousand 

lights, 
And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 
Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, 
With all its bright sublimity of stars, 
Deepened, and on his forehead smote 

the breeze : 
Beauty was all around him and delight, 
But from that eve he was alone on earth. 



THE FALCON. 

I know a falcon swift and peerless 
As e'er was cradled in the pine ; 



THE FALCON. — TRIAL. — A REQUIEM. 



43 



No bird had ever eye so fearless, 
Or wing so strong as this of mine. 

The winds not better love to pilot 
A cloud with molten gold o'errun, 

Than him, a little burning islet, 
A star above the coming sun. 

For with a lark's heart he doth tower, 
By a glorious upward instinct drawn ; 

No bee nestles deeper in the flower 
Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. 

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, 
Shudders to see him overhead ; 

The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth 
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. 

Letfraudandwrongand baseness shiver, 
For still between them and the sky 

The falcon Truth hangs poised forever 
And marks them with his vengeful eye. 



TRIAL. 



Whether the idle prisoner through his 

grate 
Watches the waving of the grass-tuft 

small, 
Which, having colonized its rift i' the 

wall, 
Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, 
And, from the sky's just helmet draws 

its lot 
Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or 

hot; — 
Whether the closer captive of a creed, 
Cooped up from birth to grind out end- 
less chaff, 
Sees through his treadmill-bars the 

noonday laugh, 
And feels in vain his crumpled pinions 

breed ; — 
Whether the Georgian slave look up 

and mark. 
With bellying sails puffed full, the tall 

cloud-bark 
Sink northward slowly, — thou alone 

seem'st good, 
Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire 



Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds 

of fire, 
And strain life's chords to the old 

heroic mood. 

Yet are there other gifts more fair than 

thine, 
Nor can I count him happiest who has 

never 
Been forced with his own hand his 

chains to sever, 
And for himself find out the waydivine ; 
He never knew the aspirer's glorious 

pains, 
He never earned the struggle's priceless 

gains. 
O, block by block, with sore and sharp 

endeavor, 
Lifelong we build these human natures 

up 
Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, 
And Trial ever consecrates the cup 
Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine. 



A REQUIEM. 

Ay, pale and silent maiden, 

Cold as thou liest there, 
Thine was the sunniest nature 

That ever drew the air, 
The wildest and most wayward, 

And yet so gently kind, 
Thou seemedst but to body 

A breath of summer wind. 

Into the eternal shadow 

That girds our life around, 
Into the infinite silence 

Wherewith Death's shore is bound, 
Thou hast gone forth, beloved ! 

And I were mean to weep, 
That thou has left Life's shallows, 

And dost possess the Deep. 

Thou liest low and silent, 
Thy heart is cold and still, 

Thine eyes are shut forever, 
And Death hath had his will ; 

He loved and would have taken, 
I loved and would have kept, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



We strove, — and he was stronger, 
And I have never wept. 

Let him possess thy body, 

Thy soul is still with me, 
More sunny and more gladsome 

Than it was wont to be : 
Thy body was a fetter 

That bound me to the flesh, 
Thank God that it is broken, 

And now I live afresh ! 

Now I can see thee clearly ; 

The dusky cloud of clay, 
That hid thy starry spirit, 

Is rent and blown away : 
To earth I give thy body, 

Thy spirit to the sky, 
I saw its bright wings growing, 

And knew that thou must fly. 

Now I can love thee truly, 

For nothing comes between 
The senses and the spirit, 

The seen and the unseen ; 
Lifts the eternal shadow, 

The silence bursts apart, 
And the soul's boundless future 

Is present in my heart. 



A PARABLE. 

Worn and footsore was the Prophet, 
When he gained the holy hill ; 

"God has left the earth," he murmured, 
" Here his presence lingers still. 

" God of all the olden prophets, 
Wilt thou speak with men no more? 

Have I not as truly served thee 
As thy chosen ones of yore ? 

" Hear me, guider of my fathers, 
Lo ! a humble heart is mine ; 

By thy mercy I beseech thee 
Grant thy servant but a sign ! " 

Bowing then his head, he listened 
For an answer to his prayer ; 

No loud burst of thunder followed, 
Not a murmur stirred the air : — 



But the tuft of moss before him 
Opened while he waited yet, 

And, from out the rock's hard bosom, 
Sprang a tender violet. 

" God ! I thank thee," said the 
Prophet ; 

" Hard of heart and blind was I, 
Looking to the holy mountain 

For the gift of prophecy. 

" Still thou speakest with thy children 

Freely as in eld sublime ; 
Humbleness, and love, and patience, 

Still give empire over time. 

" Had I trusted in my nature, 
And had faith in lowly things, 

Thou thyself wouldst then have sought 
me, 
And set free my spirit's wings. 

" But I looked for signs and wonders, 
That o'er men should give me sway ; 

Thirsting to be more than mortal, 
I was even less than clay. 

" Ere I entered on my journey, 

As I girt my loins to start, 
Ran to me my little daughter, 

The beloved of my heart ; — 

" In her hand she held a flower, 

Like to this as like may be, 
Which, beside my very threshold, 

She had plucked and brought to me." 
1842. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CUR- 
TAIN. 

We see but half the causes of our deeds, 
Seeking them wholly in the outer life, 
And heedless of the encircling spirit- 
world, 
Which, though unseen, is felt, and 

sows in us 
All germs of pure and world-wide pur- 
poses. 
From one stage of our being to the next 
We pass unconscious o'er a slender 
bridge, 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 



45 



The momentary work of unseen hands, 
Which crumbles down behind us ; 

looking back, 
We see the other shore, the gulf be- 
tween, 
And, marvelling how we won to where 

we stand, 
Content ourselves to call the builder 

Chance, 
We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, 
Not to the birth-throes of a mighty 

Truth 
Which, for long ages in blank Chaos 

dumb, 
Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had 

found 
At last a spirit meet to be the womb 
From which it might be born to bless 

mankind, — 
Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all 
The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest 

years, 
«*.nd waiting but one ray of sunlight 

more 
To blossom fully. 

But whence came that ray ? 
We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought 
Rather to name our high successes so. 
Only the instincts of greatsoulsare Fate, 
And have predestined sway : all other 

things, 
Except by leave of us, could never be. 
For Destiny is but the breath of God 
Still moving in us, the last fragment left 
Of our unfallen nature, waking oft 
Within our thought, to beckon us be- 
yond 
The narrow circle of the seen and 

known, 
And always tending to a noble end, 
As all things must that overrule the 

soul, 
And for a space unseat the helmsman, 

Will. 
The fate of England and of freedom 

once 
Seemed wavering in the heart of one 

plain man : 
One step of his, and the great dial- 
hand, 
That marks the destined progress of 

the world 
In the eternal round from wisdom on 



To higher wisdom, had been made to 

pause 
A hundred years. That step he did 

not take, — 
He knew not why, nor we, but only 

God,— 
And lived to make his simple oaken 

chair 
More terrible and grandly beautiful, 
More full of majesty than any throne, 
Before or after, of a British king. 

Upon the pier stood two stern-vis- 
aged men, 

Looking to where a little craft lay 
moored, 

Swayed by the lazy current of the 
Thames, 

Which weltered by in muddy listless- 
ness. 

Grave men they were, and battlings of 
fierce thought 

Had trampled out all softness from 
their brows, 

And ploughed rough furrows there be- 
fore their time, 

For other crop than such as homebred 
Peace 

Sows broadcast in the willing soil of 
Youth. 

Care, not of self, but of the common- 
weal, 

Had robbed their eyes of youth, and 
left instead 

A look of patient power and iron will, 

And something fiercer, too, that gave 
broad hint 

Of the plain weapons girded at their 
sides. 

The younger had an aspect of com- 
mand, — 

Not such as trickles down, a slender 
stream, 

In the shrunk channel of agreat descent. 

But such as lies entowered in heart and 
head, 

And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of 
both. 

His was a .brow where gold were out 
of place, 

And yet it seemed right worthy of a 
crown 

(Though he ^espised such), were it 
only made 



4 6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Of iron, or some serviceable stuff 

That would have matched his sinewy 
brown face. 

The elder, although such he hardly 
seemed 

(Care makes so little of some five short 
years), 

Had a clear, honest face, whose rough- 
hewn strength 

Was mildened by the scholar's wiser 
heart 

To sober courage, such as best befits 

The unsullied temper of a well-taught 
mind, 

Yet so remained that one could plainly 
guess 

The hushed volcano smouldering un- 
derneath. 

He spoke : the other, hearing, kept his 
gaze 

Still fixed, as on some problem in the 
sky. 

" O Cromwell, we are fallen on 

evil times ! 
There was a day when England had 

wide room 
For honest men as well as foolish kings ; 
But now the uneasy stomach of the 

time 
Turns squeamish at them both. There- 
fore let us 
Seek out that savage clime, where men 

as yet 
Are free : there sleeps the vessel on 

the tide, 
Her languid canvas drooping for the 

wind ; 
Give us but that, and what need we to 

fear 
This Order of the Council ? The free 

waves 
Will not say, No, to please a wayward 

Nor will the winds turn traitors at his 

beck : 
All things are fitly cared for, and the 

Lord 
Will watch as kindly o'er the exodus 
Of us his servants now, as in old time. 
We have no cloud or fire, and haply 

we 
May not pass dry-shod through the 

ocean-stream ; 



But, saved or lost, all things are in His 

hand." 
So spake he, and meantime the other 

stood 
With wide gray eyes still reading the 

blank air, 
As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw 
Some mystic sentence, written by a 

hand, 
Such as of old made pale the Assyrian 

king, 
Girt with his satraps in the blazing 

feast. 

"Hampden! a moment since, my 

purpose was 
To fly with thee, — for I will call it 

flight, 
Nor flatter it with any smoother 

name, — 
But something in me bids me not to 

go; 
And I am one, thou knowest, who, un- 
moved 
By what the weak deem omens, yet 

give heed 
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my 

soul 
Whispers of warning to the inner ear. 
Moreover, as I know that God brings 

round 
His purposes in ways undreamed by 

us, 
And makes the wicked but his instru- 
ments 
To hasten on their swift and sudden 

fall, 
I see the beauty of his providence 
In the King's order : blind,, he will not 

let 
His doom part from him, but must bid 

it stay 
As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening 

chirp 
He loved to hear beneath his very 

hearth. 
Why should we fly? Nay, why not 

rather stay 
And rear again our Zion's crumbled 

walls, 
Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were 

built, 
By minstrel twanging, but, if need 

should be, 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 



47 



With the more potent music of our 

swords ? 
Think'st thou that score of men beyond 

the sea 
Claim more God's care than all of 

England here ? 
No : when he moves His arm, it is to 

aid 
Whole peoples, heedless if a few be 

crushed, 
As some are ever, when the destiny 
Of man takes one stride onward nearer 

home. 
Believe it, 't is the mass of men He 

loves ; 
And, where there is most sorrow and 

most want, 
Where the high heart of man is trodden 

down 
The most, 'tis not because He hides 

his face 
From them in wrath, as purblind teach- 
ers prate : 
Not so : there most is He, for there is 

He 
Most needed. Men who seek for Fate 

abroad 
Are not so near His heart as they who 

dare 
Frankly to face her where she faces 

them. 
On their own threshold, where their 

souls are strong 
To grapple with and throw her ; as I 

once, 
Being yet a boy, did cast this puny 

king, 
Who now has grown so dotard as to 

deem 
That he can wrestle with an angry 

realm, 
And throw the brawned Antaeus of 

men's rights. 
No, Hampden ! they have half-way 

conquered Fate 
Who go halfway to meet her, — as 

will I. 
Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; 
So speaks that inward voice which 

never yet 
Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit 

on 
To noble deeds for country and man- 
kind. 



And, for success, I ask no more than 

this, — 
To bear unflinching witness to the 

truth. 
All true whole men succeed ; for what 

is worth 
Success's name, unless it be the 

thought, 
The inward surety, to have carried out 
A noble purpose to a noble end, 
Although it be the gallows or the block ? 
'T is only Falsehood that doth ever 

need 
These outward shows of gain to bolstel 

her. 
Be it we prove the weaker with our 

swords ; 
Truth only needs to be for once spoke 

out, 
And there 's such music in her, such 

strange rhythm, 
As makes men's memories her joyous 

slaves, 
And clings around the soul, as the sky 

clings 
Round the mute earth, forever beauti- 
ful, 
And, if o'erclouded, only to burst foith 
More all-embracingly divine and clear : 
Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is 

like 
Astar new-born, that drops into its place. 
And which, once circling in its placid 

round, 
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. 

" What should we do in that small 

colony 
Of pinched fanatics, who would rather 

choose 
Freedom to clip an inch more from 

their hair, 
Than the great chance of setting Eng- 
land free ? 
Not there, amid the stormy wilderness, 
Should we learn wisdom ; or if learned, 

what room 
To put it into act, — else worse than 

naught ? 
We learn our souls more, tossing for an 

hour 
Upon this huge and ever-vexed sea 
Of human thought, where kingdoms go 

to wreck 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Like fragile bubbles yonder in the 

stream, 
Than in a cycle of New England sloth, 
Broke only by some petty Indian war, 
Or quarrel for a letter more or less 
In some hard word, which, spelt in 

either way, 
Not their most learned clerks can un- 
derstand. 
New times demand new measures and 

new men ; 
The world advances, and in time out- 
grows 
The laws that in our fathers' day were 

best ; 
And, doubtless, after us, some purer 

scheme 
Will be shaped out by wiser men than 

we, 
Made wiser by the steady growth of 

truth. 
We cannot bring Utopia by force : 
But better, almost, be at work in sin, 
Than in a brute inaction browse and 

sleep. 
No man is born into the world, whose 

work 
Is not born with him ; there is always 

work, 
And tools to work withal, for those who 

will ; 
And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 
The busy world shoves angrily aside 
The man who stands with arms akimbo 

set, 
Until occasion tells him what to do ; 
And he who waits to have his task 

marked out 
Shall die and leave his errand unful- 
filled. 
Our time is one that calls for earnest 

deeds : 
Reason and Government, like two 

broad seas, 
Yearn for each other with outstretched 

arms 
Acrossthisnarrow isthmus of the throne, 
And roll their white surf higher every 

day. 
One age moves onward, and the next 

builds up 
Citiesandgorgeous palaces, where stood 
The rude log huts of those who tamed 

the wild. 



Rearing from out the forests they had 

felled 
The goodly framework of a fairer state ; 
The builder's trowel and the settler's axe 
Are seldom wielded by the selfsame 

hand ; 
Ours is the harder task, yet not the less 
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil 
From the choice spirits of the aftertime. 
My soul is not a palace of the past, 
Where outworn creeds, like Rome's 

gray senate, quake, 
Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet 

hoarse, 
That shakes old systems with a thunder- 
fit. 
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for 

change ; 
Then let it come : I have no dread of 

what 
Is called for by the instinct of mankind ; 
Nor think I that God's world will fall 

apart 
Because we tear a parchment more or 

less. 
Truth is eternal, but her effluence, 
With i endless change is fitted to the 

hour ; 
Her mirror is turned forward to reflect 
The promise of the future, not the past. 
He who would win the name of truly 

great * 
Must understand his own age and the 

next, 
And make the present ready to fulfil 
Its prophecy, and with the future merge 
Gently and peacefully, as wave with 

wave- 
The future works out great men's des- 
tinies ; 
The present is enough for common souls, 
Who, never looking forward, are indeed 
Mere clay, wherein the footprints of 

their age 
Are petrified forever : better those 
Who lead the blind old giant by the hand 
From out the pathless desert where he 

gropes, 
And set him onward in his darksome 

way. 
I do not fear to follow out the truth, 
Albeit along the precipice's edge. 
Let us speak plain : there is more force 

in names 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN, 



49 



Than most men dream of; and a lie 
may keep 

Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk 

Behind the shield of some fair-seeming 
name. 

Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and main- 
tain, 

That only freedom comes by grace of 
God, 

And all that comes not by his grace 
must fall ; 

For men in earnest have no time to waste 

In patching fig-leaves for the naked 
truth. 

" I will have one more grapple with 
the man 

Charles Stuart : whom the boy o'er- 
came, 

The man stands not in awe of. I, per- 
chance, 

Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 

To witness some great truth to all the 
world. 

Souls destined too'erleap the vulgar lot, 

And mould the world unto the scheme 
of God, 

Have a fore-consciousness of their high 
doom, 

As men are known to shiver at the heart 

When the cold shadow of some coming 
ill 

Creeps slowly o'er their spirits un- 
awares. 

Hath Good less power of prophecy than 
111? 

How else could men whom God hath 
called to sway 

Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of 
Truth, 

Beating against the tempest tow'rd her 
port, 

Bear all the mean and buzzing griev- 
ances, 

The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin 
strives 

To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, 

The sneers, the unrecognizing look of 
friends, 

Who worship the dead corpse of old 
king Custom, 

Where it doth lie in state within the 
Church, 

Striving to cover up the mighty ocean 
4 



With a man's palm, and making even 

the truth 
Lie for them, holding up the glass re- 
versed, 
To make the hope of man seem further 

off? 
My God ! when I read o'er the bitter 

lives 
Of men whose eager hearts were quite 

too great 
To beat beneath the cramped mode of 

the day, 
And see them mocked at by the world 

they love, 
Haggling with prejudice for penny- 
worths 
Of that reform which their hard toil 

will make 
The common birthright of the age to 

come, — 
When I see this, spite of my faith in 

God, 
I marvel how their hearts bear up so 

long ; 
Nor could they but for this same 

prophecy, 
This inward feeling of the glorious end. 

" Deem me not fond ; but in my 

warmer youth, 
Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and 

brushed away, 
I had great dreams of mighty things to 

come ; 
Of conquest, whether by the sword or 

pen 
I knew not ; but some conquest I would 

have, 
Or else swift death : now wiser grown 

in years, 
I find youth's dreams are but the flutter- 

ings 
Of those strong winds whereon the soul 

shall soar 
In aftertime to win a starry throne ; 
And so I cherish them, for they were lots, 
Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 
Now will I draw them, since a man's 

right hand, 
A right hand guided by an earnest soul, 
With a true instinct, takes the golden 

prize 
From out a thousand blanks. What 

men call luck 



5° 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Is the prerogative of valiant souls, 
The fealty life pays its rightful kings. 
The helm is shaking now, and I will stay 
To pluck my lot forth ; it were sin to 
flee ! " 

So they two turned together ; one to 

die, 
Fighting for freedom on the bloody 

field; 
The other, far more happy, to become 
A name earth wears forever next her 

heart ; 
One of the few that have a right to rank 
With the true Makers : for his spirit 

wrought 
Order from Chaos ; proved that right 

divine 
Dwelt only in the excellence of truth ; 
And far within old Darkness' hostile 

lines 
Advanced and pitched the shining 

tents of Light. 
Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to 

tell, 
That — not the least among his many 

claims 
To deathless honor — he was Mil- 
ton's friend, 
A man not second among those who 

lived 
To show us that the poet's lyre- de- 
mands 
An arm of tougher sinew than the 

sword. 

1843. 



SONG. 

O moonlight deep and tender, 

A year and more agone, 
Your mist of golden splendor 

Round my betrothal shone ! 

O elm-leaves dark and dewy, 

The very same ye seem, 
The low wind trembles through ye, 

Ye murmur in my dream ! 

O river, dim with distance, 

Flow thus forever by, 
A part of my existence 

Within your heart doth lie ! 



O stars, ye saw our meeting, 
Two beings and one soul, 

Two hearts so madly beating 
To mingle and be whole ! 

O happy night, deliver 
Her kisses back to me, 

Or keep them all, and give her 
A blissful dream of me 1 

1842. 



A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.* 

aKyeiva fxiv fiot kcu Aeyeiv earlv rd8e 
aAyos Se aiyqv. 

yEschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197. 

The old Chief, feeling now wellnigft 

his end, 
Called his two eldest children to his 

side, 
And gave them, in few words, his part- 
ing charge ! 
" My son and daughter, me ye see no 

more ; 
The happy hunting-grounds await me, 

green 
With change of spring and summer 

through the year : 
But, for remembrance, after I am gone, 
Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake : 
Weakling he is and young, and knows 

not yet 
To set the trap, or draw the seasoned 

bow; 
Therefore of both your loves he hath 

more need, 
And he, who needeth love, to love hath 

right ; 
It is not like our furs and stores of corn, 
Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, 
But the Great Spirit plants it in our 

hearts, 
And waters it, and gives it sun, to be 
The common stock and heritage of all : 
Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that 

yourselves 
May not be left deserted in your need." 

* For the leading incidents in this tale, I 
am indebted to the very valuable " Algic 
Researches " of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq. 



A CHIPPEWA LEGEND. 



5i 



Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam 

stood, 
Far from the other dwellings of their 

tribe ; 
And, after many moons, the loneliness 
Wearied the elder brother, and he said, 
" Why should I dwell here all alone, 

shut out 
From the free, natural joys that fit my 

age? 
Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled 

to hunt, 
Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet 
Have seen the danger which I dared 

not look 
Full in the face ; what hinders me to 

be 
A mighty Brave and Chief among my 

kin?" 
So, taking up his arrows and his bow, 
As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, 
Until he gained the wigwams of his 

tribe, 
Where, choosing out a bride, he soon 

forgot, 
In all the fret and bustle of new life, 
The little Sheemah and his father's 

charge. 

Now when the sister found her 

brother gone, 
And that, for many days, he came not 

back, 
She wept for Sheemah more than for 

herself; 
For Love bides longest in a woman's 

heart, 
And flutters many times before he flies, 
And then doth perch so nearly, that a 

word 
May lure him back, as swift and glad 

as light ; 
And Duty lingers even when Love is 

gone, 
Oft looking out in hope of his return ; 
And, after Duty hath been driven forth, 
Then Selfishness creeps in the last of 

all, 
Warming her lean hands at the lonely 

hearth, 
And crouching o'er the embers, to shut 

out 
Whatever paltry warmth and light are 

left, 



With avaricious greed, from all beside. 
So, for long months, the sister hunted 

wide, 
And cared for little Sheemah tenderly ; 
But, daily more and more, the loneli- 
ness 
Grew wearisome, and to herself she 

sighed, 
"Am I not fair? at least the glassy 

pool, 
That hath no cause to flatter, tells me 

so ; 
But, O, how flat and meaningless the 

tale, 
Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue ! 
Beauty hath no true glass, except it be 
In the sweet privacy of loving eyes." 
Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the 

lore 
Which she had learned of nature and 

the woods, 
That beauty's chief reward is to itself, 
And that the eyes of Love reflect alone 
The inward fairness, which is blurred 

and lost 
Unless kept clear and white by Duty's 

care. 
So she went forth and sought the 

haunts of men. 
And, being wedded, in her household 

cares, 
Soon, like the elder brother, quite for- 
got 
The little Sheemah and her father's 

charge. 

But Sheemah, left alone within the 
lodge, 

Waited and waited, with a shrinking 
heart, 

Thinking each rustle was his sister's 
step, 

Till hope grew less and less, and then 
went out, 

And every sound was changed from 
hope to fear. 

Few sounds there were : — the drop- 
ping of a nut, 

The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's 
harsh scream, 

Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Sum- 
mer's cheer, 

Heard at long intervals, seemed but to 
make 



S3 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The dreadful void of silence silenter. 
Soon what small store his sister left was 

gone, 
And, through the Autumn, he made 

shift to live^ 
On roots and berries, gathered in much 

fear 
Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he 

heard ofttimes, 
Hollow and hungry, at the dead of 

night. 
But Winter came at last, and, when 

the snow, 
Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er 

hill and plain, 
Spread its unbroken silence over all, 
Made bold by hunger, he was fain to 

glean 
(More sick at heart than Ruth, and all 

alone) 
After the harvest of the merciless wolf, 
Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and 

gaunt, yet feared 
A thing more wild and starving than 

himself; 
Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew 

friends, 
And shared together all the winter 

through. 

Late in the Spring, when all the ice 

was gone, 
The elder brother, fishing in the lake, 
Upon whose edge his father's wigwam 

stood, 
Heard a low moaning noise upon the 

shore : 
Half like a child it seemed, half like a 

wolf, 
And straightway there was something 

in his heart 
That said, " It is thy brother Sheemah's 

voice." 
So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he 

. saw \ 
Within a little thicket close at hand, 
A child that seemed fast changing to a 

wolf, 
From the neck downward, gray with 

shaggy hair, 
'That still crept on and upward as he 

looked. 
The face was turned away, but well he 

knew 



That it was Sheemah's, even his broth- 
er's face. 

Then with his trembling hands he hid 
his eyes, 

And bowed his head, so that he might 
not see 

The first look of his brother's eyes, 
and cried, 

" O Sheemah ! O my brother, speak 
to me ! 

Dost thou not know me, that I am thy 
brother ? 

Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt 
dwell 

With me henceforth, and know no care 
or want ! " 

Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 

'T were hard to summon up a human 
voice, 

And, when he spake, the sound was of 
a wolf's : 

" I know thee not, nor art thou what 
thou say'st ; 

I have none other brethren than the 
wolves, 

And, till thy heart be changed from 
what it is, 

Thou art not worthy to be called their 
kin." 

Then groaned the other, with a chok- 
ing tongue, 

" Alas ! my heart is changed right bit- 
terly ; 

'T is shrunk and parched within me 
even now ! " 

And, looking upward fearfully, he saw 

Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, 

Ugly and fierce, to hide among the 
woods. 



STANZAS ON FREEDOM. 

Men ! whose boast it is that ye 
Come of fathers brave and free, 
If there breathe on earth a slave, 
Are ye truly free and brave ? 
If ye do not feel the chain, 
When it works a brother's pain, 
Are ye not base slaves indeed, 
Slaves unworthy to be freed ? 

Women ! who shall one day bear 
Sons to breathe New England air, 



S TA NZA S ON FREEDOM. — COL UMB US. 



53 



If ye hear, without a blush, 
Deeds to make the roused blood rush 
Like red lava through your veins, 
For your sisters now in chains, — 
Answer ! are ye fit to be 
Mothers of the brave and free ? 

Is true Freedom but to break 
Fetters for our own dear sake, 
And, with leathern hearts, forget 
That we owe mankind a debt? 
No ! true freedom is to share 
All the chains our brothers wear, 
And, with heart and hand, to be 
Earnest to make others free ! 

They are slaves who fear to speak 
For the fallen and the weak ; 
They are slaves who will not choose 
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, 
Rather than in silence shrink 
From the truth they needsmust think ; 
They are slaves who dare not be 
In the right with two or three. 



COLUMBUS. 

The cordage creeks and rattles in the 
wind, 

With freaks of sudden hush ; the reel- 
ing sea 

Now thumps like solid rock beneath 
the stern, 

Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes 
short, and, falling 

Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rus- 
tling down 

The broad backs of the waves, which 
jostle and crowd 

To ning themselves upon that unknown 
shore, 

Their used familiar since the dawn of 
time, 

Whither this foredoomed life is guided 
on 

To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring 
poise 

One glittering moment, then to break 
fulfilled. 

How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing, 
The inelancholy wash of endless waves, 



The sigh of some grim monster undes- 

cried, 
Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, 
Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine ! 
Yet night brings more companions than 

the day 
To this drear waste ; new constellations 

burn, 
And fairer stars, with whose calm 

height my soul 
Finds nearer sympathy than with my 

herd 
Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty 

ring , 
Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings 
Against the cold bars of their unbelief, 
Knowing in vain my own free heaven 

beyond. 
O God ! this world, so crammed with 

eager life, 
That comes and goes and wanders back 

to silence 
Like the idle wind, which yet man's 

shaping mind 
Can make his drudge to swell the long- 
ing sails 
Of highest endeavor, — this mad, un- 

thrift world, 
Which, every hour, throws life enough 

away 
To make her deserts kind and hospita- 
ble, 
Lets her great destinies be waved aside 
By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, 
Who weigh the God they not believe 

with gold, 
And find no spot in Judas, save that 

he, 
Driving a duller bargain than he ought, 
Saddled his guild with too cheap pre- 
cedent. 
O Faith ! if thou art strong, thine 

opposite 
Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer 
Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through 

the arm 
Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, 
And made the firm-based heart, that 

would have quailed 
The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf 
Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its 

stem. 
The wicked and the weak, by some dark 

law, 



S4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Have a strange power to shut and rivet 

down 
Their own horizon round us, to unwing 
Ourheaven-aspiring visions, and to blur 
With surly clouds the Future's gleam- 
ing peaks, 
Far seen across the brine of thankless 

years. 
If the chosen soul could never be alone 
Indeepmid-silence,open-dooredtoGod, 
No greatness ever had been dreamed 

or done ; 
Among dull hearts a prophet never 

grew ; 
The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude. 

The old world is effete ; there man with 

man 
Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to 

live, 
Life is trod under-foot, — Life, the one 

block 
Of marble that 's vouchsafed wherefrom 

to carve 
Our great thoughts, white and godlike, 

to shine down 
The future, Life, theirredeemable block, 
Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft 

mars, 
Scanting our room to cut the features out 
Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown 
With a mean head the perfect limbs, or 

leave 
The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's 

trunk, 
Failure's brief epitaph. 

Yes, Europe's world 
Reels on to judgment ; there the com- 
mon need, 
Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond 
'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one 

scowlingly 
O'er his own selfish hoard at bay ; no 

state, 
Knit strongly with eternal fibres up 
Of all men's separate and united weals, 
Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as 

light, 
Holds up a shape of large Humanity 
To which by natural instinct every man 
Pays loyalty exulting, by which all 
Mould their own lives, and feel their 
pulses filled 



With the red, fiery blood of the general 

life, 
Making them mighty in peace, as now 

in war 
They are, even in the flush of victory, 

weak, 
Conquering that manhood which should 

them subdue. 
And what gift bring I to this untried 

world ? 
Shall the same tragedy be played anew, 
And the same lurid curtain drop at last 
On one dreaddesolation, one fierce crash 
Of that recoil which on its makers God 
Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger 

make, 
Early or late ? Or shall that common- 
wealth 
Whose potent unity and concentric force 
Can draw these scattered joints and 

parts of men 
Into a whole ideal man once more, 
Which sucks not from its limbs the life 

away, 
But sends its flood-tide and creates itself 
Over again in every citizen, 
Be there built up ? For me, I have no 

choice ; 
I might turn back to other destinies, 
For one sincere key opes all Fortune's 

doors ; 
But whoso answers not God's earliest 

call 
Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme 
Of lying open to his genius 
Which makes the wise heart certain of 

its ends. 

Here am I ; for what end God knows, 

not I ; _ 
Westward still points the inexorable 

soul : 
Here am I, with no friend but the sad 

sea, 
The beating heart of this great enter- 
prise, 
Which, without me, would stiffen in 

swift death ; 
This have I mused on, since mine eye 

could first 
Among the stars distinguish and with 

joy 
Rest on that God-fed Pharos of the 

north, 



COLUMBUS. 



55 



On some blue promontory of heaven 
lighted 

That juts far out into the upper sea ; 

To this one hope my heart hath clung 
for years, 

As would a foundling to the talisman 

Hung round his neck by hands he 
knew not whose ; 

A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, 

Yet he therein can feel a virtue left 

By the sad pressure of a mother's hand, 

And unto him it still is tremulous 

With palpitating haste and wet with 
tears, 

The key to him of hope and human- 
ness, 

The coarse shell of life's pearl, Expect- 
ancy. 

This hope hath been to me for love and 
fame, 

Hath made me wholly lonely on the 
earth, 

Building me up as in a thick-ribbed 
tower, 

Wherewith enwalled my watching spirit 
burned, 

Conquering its little island from the 
Dark, 

Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard 
men's steps* 

In the far hurry of the outward world, 

Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard 
in dream 

As Ganymede by the eagle was 
snatched up 

From the gross sod to be Jove's cup- 
bearer, 

So was I lifted by my great design : 

And who hath trod Olympus, from his 
eye 

Fades not that broader outlook of the 
gods ; 

His life's low valleys overbrow earth's 
clouds, 

And that Olympian spectre of the past 

Looms towering up in sovereign mem- 
ory, 

Beckoning his soul from meanerheights 
of doom. 

Had but the shadow of the Thunder- 
er's bird, 

Flashing athwart my spirit, made of 
me 

A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, 



Yet to have greatly dreamed preclude* 
low ends ; 

Great days have ever such a morning- 
red, 

On such a base great futures are built 
up, 

And aspiration, though not put in act, 

Comes back to ask its plighted troth 
again, 

Still watches round its grave the un- 
laid ghost 

Of a dead virtue, and makes other 
hopes, 

Save that implacable one, seem thin 
and bleak 

As shadows of bare trees upon the 
snow, 

Bound freezing there by the unpitying 
moon. 

While other youths perplexed their 
mandolins, 

Praying that Thetis would her fingers 
twine 

In the loose glories of the lover's hair, 

And wile another kiss to keep back 
day, 

I, stretched beneath the many-centu- 
ried shade 

Of some writhed oak, the wood's Lao- 
coon, 

Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, 

Whom-I would woo to meet me privily, 

Or underneath the stars, or when the 
moon 

Flecked all the forest floor with scat- 
tered pearls. 

days whose memory tames to fawn- 

ing down 
The surly fell of Ocean's bristled neck ! 

1 know not when this hope enthralled 

me first, 
But from my boyhood up I loved to 

hear 
The tall pine-forests of the Apennine 
Murmur their hoary legends of the 

sea, 
Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld 
The sudden dark of tropic night shut 

down 
O'er the huge whisper of great watery 

wastes, 
The while a pair of herons trailingly 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Flapped inland, where some league- 
wide river hurled 
The yellow spoil of unconjectured 

realms 
Far through a gulfs green silence, 

never scarred 
By any but the North-wind's hurrying 

keels. 
And not the pines alone ; all sights 

and sounds 
To my world-seeking heart paid fealty, 
And catered for it as the Cretan bees 
Brought honey to the baby Jupiter, 
Who in his soft hand crushed a violet, 
Godlike foremusing the rough thunder's 

gripe ; 
Then did I entertain the poet's song, 
My great Idea's guest, and, passing 

o'er 
That iron bridge the Tuscan built to 

hell, 
I heard Ulysses tell of mountain- 
chains 
Whose adamantine links, his manacles, 
The western main shook growling, and 

still gnawed. 
I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale 
Of happy Atlantis, and heard Bjorne's 

keel 
Crunch the gray pebbles of the Vin- 

land shore : 
For I believed the poets ; it is they 
Who utter wisdom from the central 

deep, 
And, listening to the inner flow of 

things, 
Speak to the age out of eternity. 

Ah me ! old hermits sought for soli- 
tude 

In caves and desert places of the earth, 

Where their own heart-beat was the 
only stir 

Of living thing that comforted the 
year ; 

But the bald pillar-top of Simeon, 

In midnight's blankest waste, were 
populous, 

Matched with the isolation diear and 
deep 

Of him who pines among the swarm of 
men, 

At once a new thought's king and pris- 
oner, 



Feeling the truer life within his life, 

The fountain of his spirit's prophecy, 

Sinking away and wasting, drop by 
drop, 

In the ungrateful sands of sceptic ears. 

He in the palace-aisles of untrod woods 

Doth walk a king ; for him the pent- 
up cell 

Widens beyond the circles of the stars, 

And all the sceptred spirits of the past 

Come thronging in to greet him as their 
peer ; 

But in {the market-place's glare and 
throng 

He sits apart, an exile, and his brow 

Aches with the mocking memory of its 
crown. 

But to the spirit select there is no 
choice ; 

He cannot say, This will I do, or that, 

For the cheap means putting Heaven's 
ends in pawn, 

And bartering his bleak rocks, the free- 
hold stern 

Of destiny's first-born, for smoother 
fields 

That yield no crop of self-denying will ; 

A hand is stretched to him from out 
the dark, 

Which grasping without question, he 
is led 

Where there is work that he must do 
for God. 

The trial still is the strength's comple- 
ment, 

And the uncertain, dizzy path that 
scales 

The sheer heights of supremest pur- 
poses 

Is steeper to the angel than the child. 

Chances have laws as fixed as planets 
have, 

And disappointment's dry and bitter 
root, 

Envy's harsh berries, and the choking 
pool 

Of the world's scorn, are the right 
mother-milk 

To the tough hearts that pioneer their 
kind, 

And break a pathway to those unknown 
realms 

That in the earth's broad shadow lie 
enthralled ; 



AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURG. 



57 



Endurance is the crowning quality, 

And patience all the passion of great 
hearts ; 

These are their stay, and when the 
leaden world 

Sets its hard face against their fateful 
thought, 

And brute strength, like a scornful con- 
queror, 

Clangs his huge mace down in the other 
scale, 

The inspired soul but flings his pa- 
tience in, 

And slowly that outweighs the ponder- 
ous globe, — 

One faith against a whole earth's un- 
belief, _ 

One soul against the flesh of all man- 
kind. 

Thus ever seems it when my soul can 
hear 

The voice that errs not ; then my tri- 
umph gleams, 

O'er the blank ocean beckoning, and 
all night 

My heart flies on before me as I sail ; 

Far on I see my lifelong enterprise, 

Which rose like Ganges 'mid the freez- 
ing snows 

Of a world's sordidness, sweep broad- 
ening down, 

And, gathering to itself a thousand 
streams, 

Grow sacred ere it mingle with the sea ; 

I see the ungated wall of chaos old, 

With blocks Cyclopean hewn of solid 
night, 

Fade like a wreath of unreturning mist 

Before the irreversible feet of light ; — 

And lo, with what clear omen in the 
east 

On day's gray threshold stands the 
eager dawn, 

Like young Leander rosy from the sea 

Glowing at Hero's lattice ! 

One day more 
These muttering shoalbrains leave the 

helm to me : 
God, let me not in their dull ooze be 

stranded ; 
Let not this one frail bark, to hollow 

which 



I have dug out the pith and sinewy 

heart 
Of my aspiring life's fair trunk, be so 
Cast up to warp and blacken in the 

sun, 
Just as the opposing wind 'gins whistle 

off 
His cheek-swollen mates, and from the 

leaning mast 
Fortune's fuli sail strains forward ! 

One poor day ! — 
Remember whose and not how short it 

is! 
It is God's day, it is Columbus's. 
A lavish day ! One day, with life and 

heart, 
Is more than time enough to find a 
world. 
1844. ' 



AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE 
AT HAMBURG. 

The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared 

upward to the skies,- 
Like some huge piece of Nature's 

make, the growth of centuries ; 
You could not deem its crowding spires 

a work of human art, 
They seemed to struggle lightward from 

a sturdy living heart. 

Not Nature's self more freely speaks in 

crystal or in oak, 
Than, through the pious builder's hand, 

in that gray pile she spoke ; 
And as from acorn springs the oak, so, 

freely and alone, 
Sprang from his heart this hymn to 

God, sung in obedient stone. 

It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, 

so perfect, yet so rough, 
A whim of Nature crystallized slowly 

in granite tough ; 
The thick spires yearned towards the 

sky in quaint harmonious lines, 
And in broad sunlight basked and slept, 

like a grove of blasted pines. 

Never did rock or stream or tree lay 
claim with better right 



58 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To all the adorning sympathies of 

shadow and of light ; 
And, in that forest petrified, as forester 

there dwells 
Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole 

lord of all its bells. 

Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared 
onward red as blood, 

Till half of Hamburg lay engulfed be- 
neath the eddying flood ; 

For miles away the fiery spray poured 
down its deadly rain, 

And back and forth the billows sucked, 
and paused, and burst again. 

From square to square with tiger leaps 

panted the lustful fire, 
The air to leeward shuddered with the 

gasps of its desire ; 
And church and palace, which even now 

stood whelmed but to the knee, 
Lift their black roofs like breakers lone 

amid the whirling sea. 

Up in his tower old Herman sat and 

watched with quiet look ; 
His soul had trusted God too long to be 

at last forsook ; 
He could not fear, for surely God a 

pathway would unfold 
Through this red sea for faithful hearts, 

as once he did of old. 

But scarcely can he cross himself, or on 

his good saint call, 
Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped 

the churchyard wall ; 
And, ere a pater half was said, 'mid 

smoke and crackling glare, 
His island tower scarce juts its head 
above the wide despair. 

Upon the peril's desperate peak his 
heart stood up sublime ; 

His first thought was for God above, 
his next was for his chime ; 

" Sing now and make your voices heard 
in hymns of praise," cried he, 

" As did the Israelites of old, safe walk- 
ing through the sea ! 



Our promised land stands full in sight ; 

shout now as ne'er before ! " 
And as the tower came crushing down, 

the bells, in clear accord, 
Pealed forth the grand old German 

hymn, — " All good souls, praise 

the Lord ! " 



THE SOWER. 

I saw a Sower walking slow 
Across the earth, from east to west ; 
His hair was white as mountain snow, 
His head drooped forward on his breast. 

With shrivelled hands he flung his seed. 
Nor ever turned to look behind ; 
Of sight or sound he took no heed ; 
It seemed he was both deaf and blind. 

His dim face showed no soul beneath, 
Yet in my heart I felt a stir, 
As if I looked upon the sheath 
That once had clasped Excalibur. 

I heard, as still the seed he cast, 
How, crooning to himself, he sung, — 
" I sow again the holy Past, 
The happy days when I was young. 

"Then all was wheat without a tare, 
Then all was righteous, fair, and true ; 
And I am he whose thoughtful care 
Shall plant the Old World in the New. 

" The fruitful germs I scatter free, 
With busy hand, while all men sleep ; 
In Europe now, from sea to sea, 
The nations bless me as they reap." 

Then I looked back along his path, 
And heard the clash of steel on steel, 
Where man faced man, in deadly wrath, 
While clanged the tocsin'shurrying peal. 

The sky with burning towns flared red, 
Nearer the noise of fighting rolled, 
And brothers' blood, by brothers shed, 
Crept, curdling, over pavements cold. 



" Through this red sea our God hath Then marked I how each germ of truth 
made the pathway safe to shore ; Which through the dotard's fingers ran 



HUNGER AND COLD. 



59 



Was mated with a dragon's tooth 
Whence there sprang up an armed man. 

I shouted, but he could not hear ; 
Made signs, but these he could not see ; 
And still, without a doubt or fear, 
Broadcast he scattered anarchy. 

Long to my straining ears the blast 
Brought faintly back the words he 

sung: — 
" I sow again the holy Past, 
The happy days when I was young." 



HUNGER AND COLD. 

Sisters two, all praise to you, 
With your faces pinched and blue ; 
To the poor man you 've been true 

From of old : 
You can speak the keenest word, 
You are sure of being heard, 
From the point you 're never stirred, 

Hunger and Cold ! 

Let sleek statesmen temporize ; 
Palsied are their shifts and lies 
When they meet your bloodshot eyes, 

Grim and bold ; 
Policy you set at naught. 
In their traps you '11 not be caught, 
You 're too honest to be bought. 

Hunger and Cold ! 

Bolt and bar the palace door ; 
While the mass of men are poor, 
Naked truth grows more and more 

Uncontrolled ; 
You had never yet, I guess, 
Any praise for bashfulness, 
You can visit sans court-dress, 

Hunger and Cold ! 

While the music fell and rose, 
And the dance reeled to its close, 
Where her round of costly woes 

Fashion strolled, 
I beheld with shuddering fear 
Wolves' eyes through the windows peer ; 
Little dream they you are near, 

Hunger and Cold ! 



When the toiler's heart you clutch, 
Conscience is not valued much, 
He recks not a bloody smutch 

On his gold : 
Everything to you defers, 
You are potent reasoners, 
At your whisper Treason stirs, 

Hunger and Cold I 

Rude comparisons you draw, 
Words refuse to sate your maw, 
Your gaunt limbs the cobweb law 

Cannot hold : 
You 're not clogged with foolish pride, 
But can seize a right denied : 
Somehow God is on your side, 

Hunger and Cold ! 

You respect no hoary wrong 
More for having triumphed long ; 
Its past victims, haggard throng, 

From the mould 
You unbury : swords and spears 
Weaker are than poor men's tears, 
Weaker than your silent years, 

Hunger and Cold ! 

Let them guard both hall and bower ; 
Through the window you will glower, 
Patient till your reckoning hour 

Shall be tolled : 
Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, 
Guiltless blood may chance be shed, 
But ye must and will be fed, 

Hunger and Cold 1 

God has plans man must not spoil, 
Some were made to starve and toil, 
Some to share the wine and oil, 

We are told : 
Devil's theories are these, 
Stifling hope and love and peace, 
Framed your hideous lusts to please, 

Hunger and Cold ! 

Scatter ashes on thy head, 
Tears of burning sorrow shed, 
Earth ! and be by Pity led 

To Love's fold ; 
Ere they block the very door 
With lean corpses of the poor, 
And will hush for naught but gore, — 

Hunger and Cold I 
1844. 



6o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE LANDLORD. 

What boot your houses and your lands? 

In spite of close-drawn deed and 
fence, 
Like water, 'twixt your cheated hands, 
They slip into the graveyard's sands 

And mock your ownership's pretence. 

How shall you speak to urge your right, 
Choked with that soil for which you 
lust? 
The bit of clay, for whose delight 
You grasp, is mortgaged, too ; Death 
might 
Foreclose this very day in dust. 

Fence as you please, this plain poor 
man, 

Whose only fields are in his wit, 
Who shapes the world, as best he can, 
According to God's higher plan, 

Owns you, and fences as is fit. 

Though yours the rents, his incomes 
wax 

By right of eminent domain ; 
From factory tall to woodman's axe, 
All things on earth must pay their tax, 

To feed his hungry heart and brain. 

He takes you from your easy-chair, 

And what he plans that you must do ; 
You sleep in down, eat dainty fare, — 
He mounts his crazy garret-stair 
And starves, the landlord over you. 

Feeding the clods your idlesse drains, 

You make more green six feet of soil ; 
His fruitful word, like suns and rains, 
Partakes the seasons' bounteous pains, 
And toils to lighten human toil. 

Your lands, with force or cunning got, 
Shrink to the measure of the grave ; 
But Death himself abridges not 
The tenures of almighty thought, 
The titles of the wise and brave. 



TO A PINE-TREE. 

Far up on Katahdin thou towerest, 
Purple-blue with the distance and 
vast; 



Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou 
lowerest, 
That hangs poised on a lull in the 
blast, 
To its fall leaning awful. 

In the storm, like a prophet o'ermad- 
dened, 
Thou singest and tossest thy branch- 
es ; 
Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, 
Thou forebodest the dread avalanch- 
es, 
When whole mountains swoop 
valeward. 

In the calm thou o'erstretchest the val- 
leys 
With thine arms, as if blessings im- 
ploring, 
Like an old king led forth from his 
palace, 
When his people to battle are pour- 
ing 
From the city beneath him. 

To the slumberer asleep 'neath thy 
glooming 
Thou dost sing of wild billows in 
motion, 
Till he longs to be swung 'mid their 
booming 
In the tents of the Arabs of ocean, 
Whose finned isles are their 
cattle. 

For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, 
With mad hand crashing melody 
frantic, 
While he pours forth his mighty de- 
sire 
To leap down on the eager Atlantic, 
Whose arms stretch to his play- 
mate. 

The wild storm makes his lair in thy 
branches, 
Preying thence on the continent un- 
der ; 
Like a lion, crouched close on his 
haunches, 
There awaiteth his leap the fierce 
thunder, 
Growling low with impatience. 



SI DESCENDERO IN INFER NUM, ADES. 



61 



Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green 

glory, 

Lusty father of Titans past number ! 

The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, 

Nestling close to thy branches in 

slumber, 

And thee mantling with silence. 

Thou alone know'st the splendor of 
winter, 
'Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed pre- 
cipices, 
Hearing crags of green ice groan and 
splinter, 
And then plunge down the muffled 
abysses 
In the quiet of midnight. 

1 *hou alone know'st the glory of sum- 
mer, 
Gazing down on thy broad seas of 
forest, 
\ )n thy subjects that send a proud mur- 
mur 
Up to thee, to their sachem, who 
•towerest 
From thy bleak throne to heaven. 



SI DESCENDERO IN INFER- 
NUM, ADES. 

O, wandering dim on the extremest 
edge 
Of God's bright providence, whose 
spirits sigh 
Drearily in you, like the winter sedge 
That shivers o'er the dead pool stiff 

and dry, 
A thin, sad voice, when the bold wind 
roars by 
From the clear North of Duty, — 
Still by cracked arch and broken shaft 

I trace 
That here was once a shrine and holy 
place 
Of the supernal Beauty, — 
A child's play-altar reared of stones 

and moss, 
With wilted flowers for offering laid 
across, 
Mute recognition of the all-ruling Grace. 



How far are ye from the innocent, from 
those 
Whose hearts are as a little lane 
serene, 
Smooth-heaped from wall to wall with 
unbroke snows, 
Or in the summer blithe with lamb- 
cropped green, 
Save the one track, where naught 
more rude is seen 
Than the plump wain at even 
Bringing home four months' sunshine 

bound in sheaves ! — 
How far are ye from those ! yet who 
believes 
That ye can shut out heaven ? 
Your souls partake its influence, not 

in vain 
Nor all unconscious, as that silent lane 
Its drift of noiseless apple-blooms re- 
ceives. 

Looking within myself, I note how thin 
'A plank of station, chance, or pros- 
perous fate, 
Doth fence me from the clutching 
waves of sin ; — 
In my own heart I find the worst 

man's mate, 
And see not dimly the smooth-hinged 
gate 
That opes to those abysses 
Where ye grope darkly, — ye who never 

knew 
On your young hearts love's consecrat- 
ing dew, 
Or felt a mother's kisses, 
Or home's restraining tendrils round 

you curled ; 
Ah, side by side with heart's-ease in 
this world 
The fatal nightshade grows and bitter 
rue ! 

One band ye cannot break, — the force 
that clips 
And grasps your circles to the central 
. light; 
Yours is the prodigal comet's long el- 
lipse, 
Self-exiled to the farthest verge of 

night ; 
Yet strives with you no less that 
inward might 
No sin hath e'er imbruted 



62 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The god in you the creed-dimmed eye 

eludes ; 
The Law brooks not to have its solitudes 
By bigot feet polluted ; — 
Yet they who watch your God-com- 
pelled return 
May see your happy perihelion burn 
Where the calm sun his unfledged 
planets broods. 



TO THE PAST. 

Wondrous and awful are thy silent 
halls, 
O kingdom of the past ! 
There lie the bygone ages in their palls, 
Guarded by shadows vast, — 
There all is hushed and breathless, 
Save when some image of old error falls 
Earth worshipped once as deathless. 

There sits drear Egypt, 'mid beleaguer- 
ing sands, 
Half woman and half beast, 
The burnt-out torch within her moul- 
dering hands 
That once lit all the East ; 
A dotard bleared and hoary, 
There Asser crouches o'er the black- 
ened brands 
Of Asia's long-quenched glory. 

Still as a city buried 'neath the sea 
Thy courts and temples stand ; 
Idle as forms on wind-waved tapestry 
Of saints and heroes grand, 
Thy phantasms grope and shiver, 
Or watch the loose shores crumbling 
silently 
Into Time's gnawing river. 

Titanic shapes withfacesblank and dun, 

Of their old godhead lorn, 
Gaze on the embers of the sunken sun, 
Which they misdeem for morn ; 
And yet the eternal sorrow 
In their unmonarched eyes says day is 
done 
Without the hope of morrow. 

O realm of silence and of swart eclipse, 
The shapes that haunt thy gloom 



Make signs to us and move thy with- 
ered lips 
Across the gulf of doom ; 
Yet all their sound and motion 
Bring no more freight to us than wraiths 
of ships 
On the mirage's ocean. 

And if sometimes a moaning wandereth 

From out thy desolate halls, 
If some grim shadow of thy living death 
Across thy sunshine falls 
And scares the world to error, 
The eternal life sends forth melodious 
breath 
To chase the misty terror. 

Thy mighty clamors, wars, and world- 
noised deeds 
Are silent now in dust, 
Gone like a tremble of the huddling 
reeds 
Beneath some sudden gust ; 
Thy forms and creeds have vanished, 
Tossed out to wither like unsightly 
weeds 
From the world's garden banished. 

Whatever of true life there was in thee 

Leaps in our age's veins ; 
Wield still thy bent and wrinkled em- 
pery, 
And shake thine idle chains ; — 
To thee thy dross is clinging, 
For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see, 
Thy poets still are singing. 

Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife 
and care, 
Float the green Fortunate Isles 
Where all thy hero-spirits dwell, and 
share 
Our martyrdoms and toils ; 
The present moves attended 
With all of brave and excellent and fair 
That made the old time splendid. 



TO THE FUTURE. 

O Land of Promise ! from what Pis- 
gah's height 
Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful 
bowers, 



TO THE FUTURE. 



63 



Thy go! den harvests flowing out of sight, 
Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined 

towers ? 
Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped 
gold, 
Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, 
Its deeps on deeps of glory, that un- 
fold m 
Still brightening abysses, 
And blazing precipices, 
Whence but a scanty leap it seems to 
heaven, 
Sometimes a glimpse is given 
Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more 
unstinted blisses. 

O Land of Quiet ! to thy shore the surf 
Of the perturbed Present rolls and 
sleeps ; 
Our storms breathe soft as June upon 
thy turf 
And lure out blossoms ; to thy bosom 
leaps, 
As to a mother's, the o'erwearied heart, 
Hearing far off and dim the toiling 
mart, _ 
The hurrying feet, the curses without 
number, 
And, circled with the glow Elysian 
Of thine exulting vision, 
Out of its very cares woos charms for 
peace and slumber. 

To thee the earth lifts up her fettered 
hands 
And cries for vengeance ; with a pity- 
ing smile 
Thou blessest her, and she forgets her 
bands, 
And her old woe-worn face a little 
while 
Grows young and noble ; unto thee the 
Oppressor 
Looks, and is dumb with awe ; 
The eternal law, 
Which makes the crime its own blinds 

fold redresser, 
Shadows his heart with perilous fore- 
boding, 
And he can see the grim-eyed 

Doom 
From out the trembling gloom 
Its silent-footed steeds towards his pal- 
ace goading. 



What promises hast thou for Poets' 
eyes, 
Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong ! 
To all their hopes what overjoyed re- 
plies ! 
What undreamed ecstasies for bliss- 
ful song ! 
Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawl- 
ing clangor 
Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate 
the poor ; 
The humble glares not on the high with 
anger ; 
Love leaves no grudge at less, no 
greed for more ; 
In vain strives Self the godlike sense to 
smother ; 
From the soul's deeps 
It throbs and leaps ; 
The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his 
long-lost brother. 

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his 
fires 
Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit 
free ; 
To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 
And grief and hunger climb about his 
knee, 
Welcome as children ; thou upholdest 
The lone Inventor by his demon 
haunted ; 
The Prophet cries to thee when hearts 
are coldest, 
And gazing o'er the midnight's 

bleak abyss, 
Sees the drowsed soul awaken at 
thy kiss, 
And stretch its happy arms and leap up 
disenchanted. 

Thou bringest vengeance, but so lov- 
ing-kindly 
The guilty thinks it pity ; taught by 
thee, 
Fierce tyrants drop the scourges where- 
with blindly 
Their own souls they were scarring ; 
conquerors see 
With horror in their hands the accursed 
spear 
That tore the meek One's side on 
Calvary, 



6 4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And from their trophies shrink with 
ghastly fear ; 
Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
The beauty of man's soul to man re- 
vealing ; 
The arrows from thy quiver 
Pierce Error's guilty heart, but only 
pierce for healing. 

O, whither, whither, glory-winged 
dreams, 
From out Life's sweat and turmoil 
would ye bear me ? 
Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden 
_ gleams, — 
This agony of hopeless contrast spare 
me ! 
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to 
my night ! 
He is a coward, who would borrow 
A charm against the present sorrow 
From the vague Future's promise of 
delight : 
As life's alarums nearer roll, 
The ancestral buckler calls, 
Self-clanging from the walls 
In the high temple of the soul ; 
Where are most sorrows, there the po- 
et's sphere is, 
To feed the soul with patience, 
To heal its desolations 
With words of unshorn truth, with love 
that never wearies. 



HEBE. 

I saw the twinkle of white feet, 
I saw the flash of robes descending ; 

Before her ran an influence fleet, 
That bowed my heart like barley bend- 
ing. 

As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on, by sweet degrees 
Joy's simple hone-v-cells unbinding. 

Those Graces were that seemed grim 
Fates ; 
With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me ; 

The long-sought Secret's golden gates 
On musical hinges swung before me. 



I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover 

I sprang the proffered life to clasp ; — 
The beaker fell ; the luck was over. 

The Earth has drunk the vintage up ; 
What boots it patch the goblet's splin- 
ters? 
Can Summer fill the icy cup, 
Whose treacherous crystal is but Win; 
ter's? 

O spendthrift, haste ! await the Gods : 
Their nectar crowns the lips of Pa- 
tience ; 

Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 
And shuns the hands would seize upon 
her ; 

Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 



THE SEARCH. 

I went to seek for Christ, 
And Nature seemed so fair 
That first the woods and fields my youth 
enticed, 
And I was sure to find him there : 
The temple I forsook, 
And to the solitude 
Allegiance paid ; but Winter came and 
shook 
The crown and purple from my 
wood ; 
His snows, like desert sands, with 
scornful drift, 
Besieged the columned aisle and pal- 
ace-gate ; 
My Thebes, cut deep with many a sol- 
emn rift, 
But epitaphed her own sepulchred 
state : 
Then I remembered whom I went to 

seek, 
And blessed blunt Winter for his coun- 
sel bleak. 

Back to the world I turned, 
For Christ, I said, is King; 



THE PRESENT CRISIS. 



65 



So the cramped alley and the hut I 
spurned, 
As far beneath his sojourning : 
'Mid power and wealth I sought, 
But found no trace of him, 
And all the costly offerings I had 
brought 
With sudden rust and mould grew 
dim : 
I found his tomb, indeed, where, by 
their laws, 
All must on stated days themselves 
imprison, 
Mocking with bread a dead creed's 
grinning jaws, 
Witless how long the life had thence 
arisen ; 
Due sacrifice to this they set apart, 
Prizing it more than Christ's own living 
heart. 

So from my feet the dust 
Of the proud World I shook ; 
Then came dear Love and shared with 
me his crust, 
And half my sorrow's burden took. 
After the World's soft bed, 
Its rich and dainty fare, 
Like down seemed Love's coarse pil- 
low to my head, 
His cheap food seemed as manna 
rare ; 
Fresh-trodden prints of bare and bleed- 
ing feet, 
Turned to the heedless city whence I 
came, 
Hard by I saw, and springs of worship 
sweet 
Gushed from my cleft heart smitten 
by the same ; 
Love looked me in the face and spake 

- no words, 
But straight I knew those footprints 
were the Lord's. 

I followed where they led 
And in a hovel rude, 
With naught to fence the weather from 
his head, 
The King I sought for meekly stood ; 
A naked, hungry child 
Clung round his gracious knee, 
And a poor hunted slave looked up and 
smiled 

5 



To bless the smile that set him free ; 
New miracles I saw his presence do, — 
No more I knew the hovel bare and 
poor, 
The gathered chips into a woodpile 
grew, 
The broken morsel swelled to goodly 
store ; 
I knelt and wept : my Christ no more 

I seek, 
His throne is with the outcast and the 
weak. 



THE PRESENT CRISIS. 

When a deed is done for Freedom, 

through the broad earth's aching 

breast 
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling 

on from east to west, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels 

the soul within him climb 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the 

energy sublime 
Of a century bursts full -blossomed on 

the thorny stem of Time. 

Through the walls of hut and palace 
shoots the instantaneous throe, 

When the travail of the Ages wrings 
earth's systems to and fro ; 

At the birth of each new Era, with a 
recognizing start, 

Nation wildly looks at nation, standing 
with mute lips apart, 

And glad Truth's yet mightier man- 
child leaps beneath the Future's 
heart. 

So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a 

terror and a chill, 
Under continent to continent, the sense 

of coming ill, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels 

his sympathies with God 
In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to 

be drunk up by the sod, 
Till a corpse crawls round unburied, 

delving in the nobler clod. 

For mankind are one in spirit, and an 

instinct bears along, 
Round the earth's electric circle, the 

swift flash of right or wrong ; 



66 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Whether conscious or unconscious, yet 

Humanity's vast frame 
Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels 

the gush of joy or shame ; — 
In the gain or loss of one race all the 

rest have equal claim. 

Once to every man and nation comes 

the moment to decide, 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, 

for the good or evil side ; 
Some great cause, God's new Messiah, 

offering each the bloom or blight, 
Parts the goats upon the left hand, and 

the sheep upon the right, 
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt 

that darkness and that light. 

Hast thou chosen, O my people, on 
whose party thou shalt stand, 

Ere the Doom from its worn sandals 
shakes the dust against our land ? 

Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 
't is Truth alone is strong, 

And, albeit she wander outcast now, I 
see around her throng 

Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to en- 
shield her from all wrong. 

Backward look across the ages and the 

beacon-moments see, 
That, like peaks of some sunk conti- 

tinent, jut through Oblivion's sea ; 
Not an ear in court or market for the 

low foreboding cry 
Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, 

from whose feet earth's chaff must 

fly; 
Never shows the choice momentous till 

the judgment hath passed by. 

Careless seems the great Avenger ; his- 
tory's pages but record 

One death-grapple in the darkness 
'twixt old systems and the Word ; 

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong 
forever on the throne, — 

Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, 
behind the dim unknown, 

Standeth God within the shadow, keep- 
ing watch above his own. 

We see dimly in the Present what is 

small and what is great, 
Slow of faith, how weak an arm may 

turn the iron helm of fate, 



But the soul is still oracular ; amid the 
market's din, 

List the ominous stern whisper from 
the Delphic cave within, — 

" They enslave their children's chil- 
dren who make compromise with 
sin." 

Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest 
of the giant brood, 

Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, 
who have drenched the earth with 
blood, 

Famished in his self-made desert, blind- 
ed by our purer day, 

Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his 
miserable prey ; — 

Shall we guide his gory fingers where 
our helpless children play ? 

Then to side with Truth is noble when 

we share her wretched crust, 
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, 

and 't is prosperous to be just ; 
Then it is the brave man chooses, while 

the coward stands aside, 
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his 

Lord is crucified, 
And the multitude make virtue of the 

faith they had denied. 

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — 

they were souls that stood alone, 
While the men they agonized for hurled 

the contumelious stone, 
Stood serene, and down the future saw 

the golden beam incline 
To the side of perfect justice, mastered 

by their faith divine, 
By one man's plain truth to manhood 

and to God's supreme design. 

By the light of burning heretics Christ's 
bleeding feet I track, 

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the 
cross that turns not back, 

And these mounts of anguish number 
how each generation learned 

One new word of that grand Credo 
which in prophet-hearts hath 
burned 

Since the first man stood God-con- 
quered with his face to heaven up- 
turned. 



AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. 



67 



For Humanity sweeps onward : where 

to-day the martyr stands, 
On the morrow crouches Judas with the 

silver in his hands ; 
Far in front the cross stands ready and 

the crackling fagots burn, 
While the hooting mob of yesterday in 

silent awe return 
To glean up the scattered ashes into 

History's golden urn. 

'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the 

idle slaves 
Of a legendary virtue carved upon our 

fathers' graves, 
Worshippers of light ancestral make 

the present light a crime ; — 
Was the Mayflower launched by cow- 
ards, steered by men behind their 

time ? 
Turn those tracks toward Past or 

Future, that make Plymouth rock 

sublime ? 

They were men of present valor, stal- 
wart old iconoclasts, _ 

Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all 
virtue was the Past's ; 

But we make their truth our falsehood, 
thinking that hath made us free, 

Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, 
while our tender spirits flee 

The rude grasp of that great Impulse 
which drove them across the sea. 

They have rights who dare maintain 
them ; we are traitors to our sires, 

Smothering in their holy ashes Free- 
dom's new-lit altar fires ; 

Shall we make their creed our jailer ? 
Shall we, in our haste to slay, 

From the tombs of the old prophets 
steal the funeral lamps away 

To light up the martyr-fagots round 
the prophets of to-day ? 

New occasions teach new duties ; Time 
makes ancient good uncouth ; 

They must upward still, and onward, 
who would keep abreast of Truth; 

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we 
ourselves must Pilgrims be, 



Launch our Mayflower, and steer bold- 
ly through the desperate winter 
sea, 

Nor attempt the Future's portal with 
the Past's blood-rusted key. 
December ) 1845. 



AN INDIAN-SUMMER REV- 
ERIE. 

What visionary tints the year puts 
on, 
When falling leaves falter through 
motionless air 
Or numbly cling and shiver to be 
gone ! 
How shimmer the low flats and pas- 
tures bare, 
As with her nectar Hebe Autumn 

fills 
The bowl between me and those 
distant hills, 
And smiles and shakes abroad her 
misty, tremulous hair ! 

No more the landscape holds its 
wealth apart, 
Making me poorer in my poverty, 
But mingles with my senses and 
my heart ; 
My own projected spirit seems to me 
In her own reverie the world to 

steep ; 
'T is she that waves to sympathetic 
sleep, 
Moving, as she is moved, each field 
and hill and tree. 

How fuse and mix, with what un- 
felt degrees, 
Clasped by the faint horizon's languid 
arms, 
Each into each, the hazy distances ! 
The softened season all the landscape 
charms ; 
Those hills, my native village that 

embay, 
In waves of dreamier purple roll 
away, 
And floating in mirage seem all the 
glimmering farms. 



68 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Far distant sounds the hidden 

chickadee 
Close at my side ; far distant sound 

the leaves ; 
The fields seem fields of dream, 

where Memory 
Wanders like gleaning Ruth ; and as 

the sheaves 
Of wheat and barley wavered in 

the eye 
Of Boaz as the maiden's glow went 

by, 

So tremble and seem remote all things 
the sense receives. 

The cock's shrill trump that tells 
of scattered corn, 
Passed breezily on by all his flapping 
mates, 
Faint and more faint, from barn to 
barn is borne, 
Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's 
Straits ; 
Dimly I catch the throb of distant 

flails; 
Silently overhead the hen-hawk 
sails, 
With watchful, measuring eye, and for 
his quarry waits. 

The sobered robin, hunger-silent 
now, 
Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn 
cheer ; 
The squirrel, on the shingly shag- 
bark's bough, 
Now saws, now lists with downward 
eye and ear, 
Then drops his nut, and, with a 

chipping bound, 
Whisks to his winding fastness 
underground ; 
The clouds like swans drift down the 
streaming atmosphere. 

O'er yon bare knoll the pointed 
cedar shadows 
Drowse on the crisp, gray moss ; the 
ploughman's call 
Creeps faint as smoke from black, 
fresh-furrowed meadows ; 
The single crow a single caw lets fall ; 
And all around me every bush and 
tree 



Says Autumn *s here, and Winter 
soon will be, 
Who snows his soft, white sleep and 
silence over all. 

The birch, most shy and ladylike 
of trees, 
Her poverty, as best she may, re- 
trieves, 
And hints at her foregone gen- 
tilities 
With some saved relics of her wealth 
of leaves ; 
The swamp-oak, with his royal 

purple on, 
Glares red as blood across the sink- 
ing sun, 
As one who proudlier to a falling for- 
tune cleaves. 

He looks a sachem, in red blanket 
wrapt, 
Who, 'mid some council of the sad- 
garbed whites, 
Erect and stern, in his own memo- 
ries lapt, 
With distant eye broods over other 
sights, 
Sees the hushed wood the city's 

flare replace, 
The wounded turf heal o'er the 
railway's trace, 
And roams the savage Past of his un- 
dwindled rights. 

The red-oak, softer-grained, yields 
all for lost, 
And, with his crumpled foliage stiff 
and dry, 
After the first betrayal of the frost, 
Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky; 
The chestnuts, lavish of their long- 
hid gold, 
To the faint Summer, beggared 
now and old, 
Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath 
her favoring eye. 

The ash her purple drops forgiv- 
ingly 
And sadly, breaking not the general 
hush ; 
The maple-swamps glow like a 
sunset sea, 
Each leaf a ripple with its separate 
flush; 



AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. 



69 



All round the wood's edge creeps 

the skirting blaze 
Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy 
days, 
Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer 
burns his brush. 

O'er yon low wall, which guards 
one unkempt zone, 
Where vines, and weeds, and scrub- 
oaks intertwine 
Safe from the plough, whose rough, 
discordant stone 
Is massed to one soft gray by lichens 
fine, 
The tangled blackberry, crossed 

and recrossed, weaves 
A prickly network of ensanguined 
leaves ; 
Hard by, with coral beads, the prim 
black-alders shine. 

Pillaring with flame this crumbling 
boundary, 
Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the 
ploughboy's foot, 
Who, with each sense shut fast ex- 
cept the eye, 
Creeps close and scares the jay he 
hoped to shoot, 
The woodbine up the elm's straight 

stem aspires, 
Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal 
fires ; 
In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak 
stands mute. 

Below, the Charles — a stripe of 
nether sky, 
Now hid by rounded apple-trees be- 
tween, 
Whose gaps the misplaced sail 
sweeps bellying by, 
Now flickering golden through a 
woodland screen, 
Then spreading out, at his next 

turn beyond, 
A silver circle like an inland 
pond — 
Slips seaward silently through marshes 
purple and green. 

Dear marshes ! vain to him the 
gift of sight 
Who cannot in their various incomes 
share, 



From every season drawn, of shade 
and light, 
Who sees in them but levels brown 
and bare ; 
Each change of storm or sunshine 

scatters free 
On them its largess of variety, 
For Nature with cheap means still 
works her wonders rare. 

In Spring they lie one broad ex- 
panse of green, 
O'er which the light winds run with 
glimmering feet ; 
Here, yellower stripes track out 
the creek unseen, 
There, darker growths o'er hidden 
ditches meet ; 
And purpler stains show where the 

blossoms crowd, 
As if the silent shadow of a cloud 
Hung there becalmed, with the next 
breath to fleet. 

All round, upon the river's slip- 
pery edge, 
Witching to deeper calm the drowsy 
tide, 
Whispers and leans the breeze- 
entangling sedge ; 
Through emerald glooms the linger- 
ing waters slide, 
Or, sometimes wavering, throw 

back the sun, 
And the stiff banks in eddies melt 
and run 
Of dimpling light, and with the cur- 
rent seem to glide. 

In Summer 't is a blithesome sight 
to see, 
As, step by step, with measured 
swing, they pass, 
The wide-ranked mowers wading 
to the knee, 
Their sharp scythes panting through 
the thick-set grass ; 
Then, stretched beneath a rick's 

shade in a ring, 
Their nooning take, while one be- 
gins to sing 
A stave that droops and dies 'neath the 
close sky of brass. 



7 o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the 
bobolink, 
Remembering duty, in mid-quaver 
stops 
Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's 
tremulous brink, 
And 'twixt the winrows most de- 
murely drops, 
A decorous bird of business, who 

provides 
For his brown mate and fledglings 
six besides, 
And looks from right to left, a farmer 
'mid his crops. 

Another change subdues them in 
the Fall, 
But saddens not ; they still show 
merrier tints, 
Though sober russet seems to cover 
all; 
When the first sunshine through their 
dew-drops glints, 
Look how the yellow clearness, 

streamed across, 
Redeems with rarer hues the sea- 
son's loss, 
As Dawn's feet there had touched and 
left their rosy prints. 

Or come when sunset gives its 
freshened zest, 
Lean o'er the bridge and let the 
ruddy thrill, 
While the shorn sun swells down 
the hazy west, 
Glow opposite ; — the marshes drink 
their fill 
And swoon with purple veins, then 

slowly fade 
Through pink to brown, as east- 
ward moves the shade, 
Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Si- 
mond's darkening hill. 

Later, and yet ere Winter wholly 
shuts, 
Ere through the first dry snow the 
runner grates, 
And the loath cart-wheel screams 
in slippery ruts, 
While firmer ice the eager boy awaits, 
Trying each buckle and strap be- 
side the fire, 



And until bedtime plays with his 
desire, 
Twenty times putting on and off his 
new-bought skates ; — 

Then, every morn, the river's banks 
shine bright 
With smooth plate-armor, treacher- 
ous and frail, 
By the frost's clinking hammers 
forged at night, 
'Gainst which the lances of the sun 
prevail, 
Giving a pretty emblem of the day 
When guiltier arms in light shall 
melt away, 
And states shall move free-limbed, 
loosed from war's cramping mail. 

And now those waterfalls the ebb- 
ing river 
Twice every day creates on either 
side 
Tinkle, as through their fresh- 
sparred grots they shiver 
In grass-arched channels to the sun 
denied; 
High flaps in sparkling blue the 

far-heard crow, 
The silvered flats gleam frostily 
below, 
Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the 
glassy tide. 

But crowned in turn by vying sea- 
sons three, 
Their winter halo hath a fuller ring ; 
This glory seems to rest immova- 
bly, — 
The others were too fleet and vanish- 
ing; 

When the hid tide is at its highest 

flow, 
O'er marsh and stream one breath- 
less trance of snow 
With brooding fulness awes and hushes 
everything. 

The sunshine seems blown off by 

the bleak wind, 
As pale as formal candles lit by day ; 
Gropes to the sea the river dumb 

and blind ; 



AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE. 



7i 



The brown ricks, snow-thatched by 
the storm in play, 
Show pearly breakers combing o'er 

their lee, 
White crests as of some just en- 
chanted sea, 
Checked in their maddest leap and 
hanging poised midway. 

But when the eastern blow, with 
rain aslant, 
From mid-sea's prairies green and 
rolling plains 
Drives in his wallowing herds of 
billows gaunt, 
And the roused Charles remembers 
in his veins 
Old Ocean's blood and snaps his 

gyves of frost, 
That tyrannous silence on the 
shores is tost 
In dreary wreck, and crumbling deso- 
lation reigns. 

Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like de- 
vice, 
With leaden pools between or gullies 
bare, 
The blocks lie strewn, a bleak 
Stonehenge of ice ; 
No life, no sound, to break the grim 
despair, 
Save sullen plunge, as through the 

sedges stiff 
Down crackles riverward some 
thaw-sapped cliff, 
Or when the close-wedged fields of ice 
crunch here and there. 

But let me turn from fancy-pic- 
tured scenes 
To that whose pastoral calm before 
'me lies: 
Here nothing harsh or rugged in- 
tervenes ; 
The early evening with her misty 
dyes 
Smooths off the ravelled edges of 

the nigh, 
Relieves the distant with her cool- 
er sky, 
And tones the landscape down, and 
soothes the wearied eyes. 



There gleams my native village, 
dear to me, 
Though higher change's waves each 
day are seen, 
Whelming fields famed in boy- 
hood's history, 
Sanding with houses the diminished 
green ; 
There, in red brick, which soften- 
ing time defies, 
Stand square and stiff the Muses' 
factories ; — 
How with my life knit up is every well- 
known scene ! 

Flow on, dear river ! not alone you 
flow 
To outward sight, and through your 
marshes wind ; 
Fed from the mystic springs of 
long-ago, 
Your twin flows silent through my 
world of mind : 
Grow dim, dear marshes, in the 

evening's gray ! 
Before my inner sight ye stretch 
away, 
And will forever, though these fleshly 
eyes grow blind. 

Beyond the hillock's house-bespot- 
ted swell, 
Where Gothic chapels house the 
horse and chaise. 
Where quiet cits in Grecian tem- 
ples dwell, 
Where Coptic tombs resound with 
prayer and praise, 
Where dust and mud the equal 

year divide, 
There gentle Allston lived, and 
wrought, and died, 
Transfiguring street and shop with his 
illumined gaze. 

Virgilium vidi tantuni) — I have 
seen 
But as a boy, who looks alike on all, 
That misty hair, that fine Undine- 
like mien, 
Tremulous as down the feeling's 
faintest, call ; — 
Ah, dear old homestead ! count it 
to thy fame 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



That thither many times the Paint- 
er came ; — 
One elm yet bears his name, a feathery 
tree and tall. 

Swiftly the present fades in memo- 
ry's glow, — 
Our only sure possession is the past ; 
The village blacksmith, died a 
month ago, 
And dim to me the forge's roaring 
blast ; 
Soon fire-new mediaevals we shall 

see 
Oust the black smithy from its 
chestnut-tree, 
And that hewn down, perhaps, the bee- 
hive green and vast. 

How many times, prouder than 
king on throne, 
Loosed from the village school- 
dame's A's and B's, 
Panting have I the creaking bel- 
lows blown, 
And watched the pent volcano's red 
increase, 
Then paused to see the ponderous 

sledge, brought down 
By that hard arm voluminous and 
brown, 
From the white iron swarm its golden 
vanishing bees. 

Dear native town ! whose choking 
elms each year 
With eddying dust before their time 
turn gray, 
Pining for rain, — to me thy dust is 
dear; 
It glorifies the eve of summer day, 
And when the westering sun half 

sunken burns, 
The mote-thick air to deepest 
orange turns, 
The westward horseman rides through 
clouds of gold away, 

So palpable, I 've seen those un- 
shorn few. 
The six old willows at the causey's 
end 



(Such trees Paul Potter never 
dreamed nor drew), 
Through this dry mist their checker- 
ing shadows send, 

Striped, here and there, with many 
a long-drawn thread, 

Where streamed through leafy 
chinks the trembling red, 
Past which, in one bright trail, the 
hangbird's flashes blend. 

Yes, dearer far thy dust than all 
that e'er, 
Beneath the awarded crown of victory, 
Gilded the blown Olympic chariot- 
eer ; 
Though lightly prized the ribboned 
parchments three, 
Yet collegisse juvat, I am glad 
That here what colleging was mine 
I had, — 
It linked another tie, dear native town, 
with thee ! 

Nearer art thou than simply native 
earth, 
My dust with thine concedes a deep- 
er tie ; 
A closer claim thy soil may well 
put forth, 
Something of kindred more than 
sympathy ; 
For in thy bounds I reverently laid 

away 
That blinding anguish of forsaken 
clay, 
That title I seemed to have in earth 
and sea and sky, 

That portion of my life more choice 
to me 
(Though brief, yet in itself so round 
and whole) 
Than all the imperfect residue can 
be; — 
The Artist saw his statue of the soul 
Was perfect ; so, with one regret- 
ful stroke, 
The earthen model into fragments 
broke, 
And without her the impoverished 
seasons roll. 



THE GROWTH OF THE LEGEND. 



73 



THE GROWTH OF THE 
LEGEND. 

A FRAGMENT. 

A legend that grew in the forest's hush 
Slowly as tear-drops gather and gush, 
When a word some poet chanced to say 
Ages ago, in his careless way, 
Brings our youth back to us out of its 

shroud 
Clearly as under yon thunder-cloud 
I see that white sea-gull. It grew and 

grew, 
From the pine-trees gathering a sombre 

hue, 
Till it seems a mere murmur out of the 

vast 
Norwegian forests of the past; 
And it grew itself like a true Northern 

pine, 
First a little slender line, 
Like a mermaid's green eyelash, and 

then anon 
A stem that a tower might rest upon, 
Standing spear-straight in the waist- 
deep moss, 
Its bony roots clutching around and 

across, 
As if they would tear up earth's heart 

in their grasp 
Ere the storm should uproot them or 

make them unclasp ; 
Its cloudy boughs singing, as suiteth 

the pine, 
To shrunk snow-bearded sea-kings old 

songs of the brine, 
Till they straightened and let their 

m staves fall to the floor, 
Hearing waves moan again on the 

perilous shore 
Of Vinland, perhaps, while their prow 

groped its way 
'Twixt the frothy gnashed tusks of some 

ship-crunching bay. 

So, pine-like, the legend grew, strong- 
limbed and tall, 

As the Gypsy child grows that eats 
crusts in the hall ; 

It sucked the whole strength of the 
earth and the sky, 

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all 
brought it supply ; 



'Twas a natural growth, and stood fear- 
lessly there, 

A true part of the landscape as sea, 
land, and air ; 

For it grew in good times, ere the 
fashion it was 

To force up these wild births of the 
woods under glass, 

And so, if 't is told as it should be told, 

Though 't were sung under Venice's 
moonlight of gold, 

You would hear the old voice of its 
mother, the pine, 

Murmur sealike and northern through 
every line, 

And the verses should hang, self-sus- 
tained and free, 

Round the vibrating stem of the melody, 

Like the lithe sun-steeped limbs of the 
parent tree. 

Yes, the pine is the mother of legends ; 

what food 
For their grim roots is left when the 

thousand-yeared wood — 
The dim-aisled cathedral, whose tall 

arches spring 
Light, sinewy, graceful, firm-set as the 

wing 
From Michael's white shoulder — is 

hewn and defaced 
By iconoclast axes in desperate waste, 
And its wrecks seek the ocean it pro- 
phesied long, 
Cassandra-like, crooning its mystical 

song? 
Then the legends go with them, — even 

yet on the sea 
A wild virtue is left in the touch of the 

tree, 
And the sailor's night-watches are 

thrilled to the core 
With the lineal offspring of Odin and 

Thor. 

Yes, wherever the pine-wood has never 

let in, 
Since the day of creation, the light and 

the din 
Of manifold life, but has safely conveyed 
From the midnight primeval its armful 

of shade, 
And has kept the weird Past with its 

sagas alive 



74 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



'Mid the hum and the stir of To-day's 
busy hive, 

There the legend takes root in the age- 
gathered gloom, 

And its murmurous boughs for their 
tossing find room. 

Where Aroostook, far-heard, seems to 
sob as he goes 

Groping down to the sea 'neath his 
mountainous snows ; 

Where the lake's frore Sahara of never- 
tracked white, 

When the crack shoots across it, com- 
plains to the night 

With a long, lonely moan, that leagues 
northward is lost, 

As the ice shrinks away from the tread 
of the frost ; 

Where the lumberers sit by the log-fires 
which throw 

Their own threatening shadows far 
round o'er the snow, 

When the wolf howls aloof, and the 
wavering glare 

Flashes out from the blackness the eyes 
of the bear, 

When the wood's huge recesses, half- 
lighted, supply 

A canvas where Fancy her mad brush 
may try, 

Blotting in giant Horrors that venture 
not down 

Through the right-angled streets of the 
brisk, whitewashed town, 

But skulk in the depths of the measure- 
less wood 

'Mid the Dark's creeping whispers that 
curdle the blood, 

When the eye, glanced in dread o'er 
the shoulder, may dream, 

Ere it shrinks to the camp-fire's com- 
panioning gleam, 

That it saw the fierce ghost of the Red 
Man crouch back 

To the shroud of the tree-trunk's in- 
vincible black ; — 

There the old shapes crowd thick round 
the pine-shadowed camp, 

Which shun the keen gleam of the 
scholarly lamp, 

And the seed of the legend finds true 
Norland ground, 

While the border-tale 's told and the 
canteen flits round. 



A CONTRAST. 

Thy love thou sentest oft to me, 
And still as oft I thrust it back ; 

Thy messengers I could not see 

In those who everything did lack, — 
The poor, the outcast, and the black. 

Pride held his hand before mine eyes, 
The world with flattery stuffed mine 
ears ; 
I looked to see a monarch's guise, 
Nor dreamed thy love would knock 

for years, 
Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears. 

Yet, when I sent my love to thee, 
Thou with a smile didst take it in, 

And entertain'dst it royally, 

Though grimed with earth, with 

hunger thin, 
And leprous with the taint of sin. 

Now every day thy love I meet, 
As o'er the earth it wanders wide, 

With weary step and bleeding feet, 
Still knocking at the heart of pride 
Andofferinggrace, though still denied. 



EXTREME UNCTION. 

Go ! leave me, Priest ; my soul would 
be 
Alone with the consoler, Death ; 
Far sadder eyes than thine will see 
This crumbling clay yield up its 
breath ; 
These shrivelled hands have deeper 
stains 
Than holy oil can cleanse away, — 
Hands that have plucked the world's 
coarse gains 
As erst they plucked the flowers of 
May. 

Call, if thou canst, to those gray eyes 
Some faith from youth's traditions 
wrung ; 
This fruitless husk which dustward 
dries 
Has been a heart once, has been 
young ; 



EXTREME UNCTION. — THE OAK, 



IS 



On this bowed head the awful Past 
Once laid its consecrating hands ; 

The Future in its purpose vast 
Paused, waiting my supreme com- 
mands. 

But look ! whose shadows block the 
door? 
Who are those two that stand aloof? 
See ! on my hands this freshening gore 
Writes o'er again its crimson proof ! 
My looked-for death-bed guests are 
met ; — 
There my dead Youth doth wring its 
hands, 
And there, with eyes that goad me yet, 
The ghost of my Ideal stands ! 

God bends from out the deep and says, — 

" I gave thee the great gift of life ; 
Wast thou not called in many ways ? 

Are not my earth and heaven at strife ? 
I gave thee of my seed to sow, 

Bringest thou me my hundred-fold ? " 
Can I look up with face aglow, 

And answer, " Father, here is gold " ? 

I have been innocent ; God knows 

When first this wasted life began, 
Not grape with grape more kindly 
grows, 

Than I with every brother-man : 
Now here I gasp ; what lose my kind, 

When this fast ebbing breath shall 
part? 
What bands of love and service bind 

This being to the world's sad heart ? 

Christ still was wandering o'er the earth 

Without a place to lay his head ; 
He found free welcome at my hearth, 

He shared my cup and broke my 
bread : 
Now, when I hear those steps sublime, 

That bring the other world to this, 
My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime, 

Starts sideway with defiant hiss. 

Upon the hour when I was born, 
God said, " Another man shall be," 

And the great Maker did not scorn 
Out of himself to fashion me ; 

He sunned me with his ripening looks, 



And Heaven's rich instincts in md, 
grew, 
As effortless as woodland nooks 

Send violets up and paint them blue. 

Yes, I who now, with angry tears, 

Am exiled back to brutish clod, 
Have borne unquenched for fourscore 
years 

A spark of the eternal God ; 
And to what end ? How yield I back 

The trust for such high uses given ? 
Heaven's light hath but revealed a track 

Whereby to crawl away from heaven. 

Men think it is an awful sight 

To see a soul just set adrift 
On that drear voyage from whose night 

The ominous shadows never lift ; 
But 't is more awful to behold 

A helpless infant newly born, 
Whose little hands unconscious hold. 

The keys of darkness and of morn. 

Mine held them once ; I flung away 

Those keys that might have open set 
The golden sluices of the day, 

But clutch the keys of darkness yet ; — 
I hear the reapers singing go 

Into God's harvest ; I, that might 
With them have chosen, here below 

Grope shuddering at the gates of 
night. 

O glorious Youth, that once wast mine ! 

O high Ideal ! all in vain 
Ye enter at this ruined shrine 

Whence worship ne'er shall . rise 
again ; 
The bat and owl inhabit here, 

The snake nests in the altar-stone, 
The sacred vessels moulder near, 

The image of the God is gone. 



THE OAK. 

What gnarled stretch, what depth of 
shade, is his ! 
There needs no crown to mark the 
forest's king ; 

How in his leaves outshines full sum- 
mer's bliss ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their 
tribute bring, 
Which he with such benignant royalty 
Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent ; 
All nature seems his vassal proud to 
be, 
And cunning only for his ornament. 

How towers he, too, amid the billowed 
snows, 
An unquelled exile from the sum- 
mer's throne, 
Whose plain, uncinctured front more 
kingly shows, 
Now that the obscuring courtier 
leaves are flown. 
His boughs make music of the winter 
air, 
Jewelled with sleet, like some cathe- 
dral front 
Where clinging snow-flakes with quaint 
art repair 
The dints and furrows of time's en- 
vious brunt. 

How doth his patient strength the rude 
March wind 
Persuade to seem glad breaths of 
summer breeze, 
And win the soil that fain would be un- 
kind, 
To swell his revenues with proud in- 
crease ! 
He is the gem ; and all the landscape 
wide 
(So doth his grandeur isolate the 
sense) 
Seems but the setting, worthless all be- 
side, 
An empty socket, were he fallen 
thence. 

So, from oft converse with life's wintry 
gales, 
Should man learn how to clasp with 
tougher roots 
The inspiring earth ; — how otherwise 
avails 
The leaf-creating sap that sunward 
shoots ? 
So every year that falls with noiseless 
flake 
Should fill old scars up on the storm- 
ward side, 



And make hoar age revered for age's 

sake, 
Not for traditions of youth's leafy 
pride. 

So, from the pinched soil of a churlish 
fate, 
True hearts compel the sap of stur- 
dier growth, 
So between earth and heaven stand 
simply great, 
That these shall seem but their at- 
tendants both ; 
For nature's forces with obedient zeal 
Wait on the rooted faith and oaken 
will ; 
As quickly the pretender's cheat they 
feel, 
And turn mad Pucks to flout and 
mock him still. 

Lord ! all thy works are lessons, — each 
contains 
Some emblem of man's all-contain- 
ing soul ; 
Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious 
pains, 
Delving within thy grace an eyeless 
mole? 
Make me the least of thy Dodona- 
grove, 
Cause me some message of thy truth 
to bring, 
Speak but a word through me, nor let 
thy love 
Among my boughs disdain to perch 
and sing. 



AMBROSE. 

Never, surely, was holier man 

Than Ambrose, since the world began ; 

With diet spare and raiment thin 

He shielded himself from the father of 

sin ; 
With bed of iron and scourgings oft, 
His heart to God's hand as wax made 

soft. 

Through earnest prayer and watchings 

long 
He sought to know 'twixt right and 

wrong, 



AMBROSE.— ABOVE AND BELOW. 



77 



Much wrestling with the blessed Word 
To make it yield the sense of the Lord, 
That he might build a storm-proof 

creed 
To fold the flock in at their need. 

At last he builded a perfect faith, 
Fenced round about with The Lord 

thus saith ; 
To himself he fitted the doorway's size, 
Meted the light to the need of his eyes, 
And knew, by a sure and inward sign, 
That the work of his fingers was divine. 

Then Ambrose said, "All those shall 

die 
The eternal death who believe not as 

I"; 

And some were boiled, some burned in 

fire, 
Some sawn in twain, that his heart's 

desire, 
For the good of men's souls, might be 

satisfied, 
"By the drawing of all to the righteous 

side. 

One day, as Ambrose was seeking the 

truth 
In his lonely walk, he saw a youth 
Resting himself in the shade of a tree ; 
It had never been given him to see 
So shining a face, and the good man 

thought 
'T were pity he should not believe as 

he ought. 

So he set himself by the young man's 
side, 

And the state of his soul with questions 
tried ; 

But the heart of the stranger was hard- 
ened indeed, 

Nor received the stamp of the one true 
creed, 

And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore 
to find 

Such face the porch of so narrow a 
mind. 

"As each beholds in cloud and fire 
The shape that answers his own desire, 
So each," said the youth, "in the Law 
shall find 



The figure and features of his mind ; 
And to each in his mercy hath God al- 
lowed 
His several pillar of fire and cloud." 

The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal 
And holy wrath for the young man's 

weal : 
"Belie vest thou then, most wretched 

youth," 
Cried he, " a dividual essence in Truth ? 
I fear me thy heart is too cramped with 

sin 
To take the Lord in his glory in." 

Now there bubbled beside them where 

they stood 
A fountain of waters sweet and good ; 
The youth to the streamlet's brink drew 

near 
Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of 

creeds, look here ! " 
Six vases of crystal then he took, 
And set them along the edge of the 

brook. 

"As into these vessels the water I pour, 
There shall one hold less, another more, 
And the water unchanged, in every 

case, 
Shall put on the figure of the vase ; 
O thou, who wouldst unity make 

through strife, 
Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of 

Life? 

When Ambrose looked up, he stood 

alone, 
The youth and the stream and the vases 

were gone ; 
But he knew, by a sense of humbled 

grace, 
He had talked with an angel face to 

face, 
And felt his heart change inwardly, 
As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. 



ABOVE AND BELOW. 



O dwellers in the valley-land, 
Who in deep twilight grope and 
cower, 



7 8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Till the slow mountain's dial-hand 
Shortens to noon's triumphal hour, — 

While ye sit idle, do ye think 

The Lord's great work sits idle too? 

That light dare not o'erleap the brink 
Of morn, because 't is dark with you ? 

Though yet your valleys skulk in night, 

In God's ripe fields the day is cried, 
And reapers, with their sickles bright, 

Troop, singing, down the mountain- 
side : 
Come up, and feel what health there is 

In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, 
As, bending with a pitying kiss, 

The night-shed tears of Earth she 
dries ! 

The Lord wants reapers : O, mount up, 

Before night comes, and says, — " Too 
late ! " 
Stay not for taking scrip or cup, 

The Master hungers while ye wait ; 
'T is from these heights alone your eyes 

The advancing spears of day can see, 
Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise, 

To break your long captivity. 



Lone watcher on the mountain-height ! 

It is right precious to behold 
The first long surf of climbing light 

Flood all the thirsty east with gold ; 
But we, who in the shadow sit, 

Know also when the day is nigh, 
Seeing thy shining forehead lit 

With his inspiring prophecy. 

Thou hast thine office ; we have ours ; 

God lacks not early service here, 
But what are thine eleventh hours 

He counts with us for morning 
cheer ; 
Our day, for Him, is long enough, 

And when he giveth work to do, 
The bruised reed is amply tough 

To pierce the shield of error through. 

But not the less do thou aspire 

Light's earlier messages to preach ; 

Keep back no syllable of fire, — 
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. 

Yet God deems not thine aeried sight 



More worthy than our twilight 
dim, — 
For meek Obedience, too, is Light, 
And following that is finding Him. 



THE CAPTIVE. 

It was past the hour of trysting, 
But she lingered for him still ; 

Like a child, the eager streamlet 
Leaped and laughed adown the hill, 

Happy to be free at twilight 
From its toiling at the mill. 

Then the great moon on a sudden 
Ominous, and red as blood, 

Startling as a new creation, 
O'er the eastern hill-top stood, 

Casting deep and deeper shadows 
Through the mystery of the wood. 

Dread closed huge and vague about 
her, 

And her thoughts turned fearfully 
To her heart, if there some shelter 

From the silence there might be, 
Like bare cedars leaning inland 

From the blighting of the sea. 

Yet he came not, and the stillness ' 
Dampened round her like a tomb ; 

She could feel cold eyes of spirits 
Looking on her through the gloom, 

She could hear the groping footsteps 
Of some blind, gigantic doom. 

Suddenly the silence wavered 
Like a light mist in the wind, 

For a voice broke gently through it, 
Felt like sunshine by the blind, 

And the dread, like mist in sunshine, 
Furled serenely from her mind. 

" Once my love, my love forever, — 
Flesh or spirit still the same ; 

If I missed the hour of trysting, 
Do not think my faith to blame, 

I, alas, was made a captive, 
As from Holy Land I came. 

" On a green spot in the desert, 
Gleaming like an emerald star, 



THE CAPTIVE. — THE BIRCH-TREE. 



79 



Where a palm-tree, in lone silence, 

Yearning for its mate afar, 
Droops above a silver runnel, 

Slender as a scimitar, — 

"There thou 'It find the humble postern 

To the castle of my foe ; 
If thy love burn clear and faithful, 

Strike the gateway, green and low, 
Ask to enter, and the warder 

Surely will not say thee no." 

Slept again the aspen silence, 
But her loneliness was o'er ; 

Round her heart a motherly patience 
Wrapt its arms forevermore ; 

From her soul ebbed back the sorrow, 
Leaving smooth the golden shore. 

Donned she now the pilgrim scallop, 
Took the pilgrim staff in hand ; 

Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, 
Wandered she o'er sea and land ; 

And her footsteps in the desert 
Fell like cool rain on the sand. 

Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow, 
Knelt she at the postern low ; 

And thereat she knocketh gently, 
Fearing much the warder's no ; 

All her heart stood still and listened, 
As the door swung backward slow. 

There she saw no surly warder 
With an eye like bolt and bar ; 

Through her soul a sense of music 
Throbbed, — and, like a guardian 
Lar, 

On the threshold stood an angel, 
Bright and silent as a star. 

Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs, 

And her spirit, lily-wise, 
Blossomed when he turned upon her 

The deep welcome of his eyes, 
Sending upward to that sunlight 

All its dew for sacrifice. 

Then she heard a voice come onward 
Singing with a rapture new, 

As Eve heard the songs in Eden, 
Dropping earthward with the dew ; 

Well she knew the happy singer, 
Well the happy song she knew. 



Forward leaped she o'er the threshold, 

Eager as a glancing surf; 
Fell from her the spirit's languor, 

Fell from her the body's scurf ; — 
'Neath the palm next day some Arabs 

Found a corpse upon the turf. 



THE BIRCH-TREE. 

Rippling through thy branches goes 
the sunshine, 

Among thy leaves that palpitate for- 
ever ; 

Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had pris- 
oned, 

The soul once of some tremulous in- 
land river, 

Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah ! 
dumb, dumb forever 1 

While all the forest, witched with 

slumberous moonshine, 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy 

silence, 
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse 

suspended, — , 
I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy 

islands, 
And track thee wakeful still amid the 

wide-hung silence. 

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled 

lakelet. 
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, 
Dripping about thy slim white stem, 

whose shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's 

dusky quiet, 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge 

would some startled Dryad. 

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 
Thy white bark has their secrets in its 

keeping ; 
Reuben writes here the happy name of 

Patience, 
And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring 

and weeping 
Above her, as she steals the mystery 

from thy keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, 
So frankly coy, so full of trembly confi- 
dences ; 



So 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy 

pattering leaflets 
Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er 

my senses, 
And Nature gives me all her summer 

confidences. 

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow 
tremble, 

Thou sympathizest still ; wild and un- 
quiet, 

I fling me down ; thy ripple, like a river, 

Flows valleyward, where calmness is, 
and by it 

My heart is floated down into the land 
of quiet. 



AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES 
STANDISH. 

I sat one evening in my room, 

In that sweet hour of twilight 
When blended thoughts, half light, half 
gloom, 

Throng through the spirit's skylight ; 
The flames by fits curled round the bars, 

Or up the chimney crinkled, 
While embers dropped like falling stars, 

And in the ashes tinkled. 

I sat and mused ; the fire burned low, 

And, o'er my senses stealing, 
Crept something of the ruddy glow 

That bloomed on wall and ceiling; 
My pictures (they are very few, — 

The heads of ancient wise men) 
Smoothed down their knotted fronts, 
and grew 

As rosy as excisemen. 

My antique high-backed Spanish chair 

Felt thrills through wood and leather, 
That had been strangers since whilere, 

'Mid Andalusian heather, 
The oak that made its sturdy frame 

His happy arms stretched over 
The ox whose fortunate hide became 

The bottom's polished cover. 

It came out in that famous bark 
That brought our sires intrepid, 

Capacious as another ark 
For furniture decrepit ; — 



For, as that saved of bird and beast 

A pair for propagation, 
So has the seed of these increased 

And furnished half the nation. 

Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats : 

But those slant precipices 
Of ice the northern voyager meets 

Less slippery are than this is ; 
To cling therein would pass the wit 

Of royal man or woman, 
And whatsoe'er can stay in it 

Is more or less than human. 

I offer to all bores this perch, 

Dear well-intentioned people 
With heads as void as week-day church, 

Tongues longer than the steeple ; 
To folks with missions, whose gaunt 
eyes 

See golden ages rising, — 
Salt of the earth ! in what queer Guys 

Thou 'rt fond of crystallizing ! 

My wonder, then, was not unmixed 

With merciful suggestion, 
When, as my roving eyes grew fixed 

Upon the chair in question, 
I saw its trembling arms enclose 

A figure grim and rusty, 
Whose doublet plain and plainer hose 

Were something worn and dusty. 

Now even such men as Nature forms 

Merely to fill the street with, 
Once turned to ghosts by hungry worms^ 

Are serious things to meet with ; 
Your penitent spirits are no jokes, 

And, though I 'm not averse to 
A quiet shade, even they are folks 

One cares not to speak first to. 

Who knows, thought I, but he has come, 

By Charon kindly ferried, 
To tell me of a mighty sum 

Behind my wainscot buried? 
There is a buccaneerish air 

About that garb outlandish — 
Just then the ghost drew up his chair 

And said, " My name is Standish. 

" I come from Plymouth, deadly bored 
With toasts, and songs, and speeches, 

As long and flat as my old sword, 
As threadbare as my breeches : 



THE CAPTURE. 



8* 



They understand us Pilgrims ! they, 
Smooth meu with rosy laces, 

Strength's knots and gnarls all pared 
away, 
And varnish in their places ! 

" We had some toughness in our grain, 

The eye to rightly see us is 
Not just the one that lights the brain 

Of drawing-room Tyrtasuses : 
They talk about their Pilgrim blood, 

Their birthright high and holy ! — 
A mountain-stream that ends in mud 

Methinks is melancholy. 

" He had stiff knees, the Puritan, 

That were not good at bending ; 
The homespun dignity of man 

He thought was worth defending ; 
He did not, with his pinchbeck ore, 

His country's shame forgotten, 
Gild Freedom's coffin o'er and o'er, 

When all within was rotten. 

" These loud ancestral boasts of yours, 

How can they else than vex us ? 
Where were your dinner orators 

When slavery grasped at Texas ? 
Dumb on his knees was every one 

That now is bold as Caesar, — 
Mere pegs to hang an office on 

Such stalwart men as these are." 

"Good sir," I said, "you seem much 
stirred ; 

The sacred compromises — " 
" Now God confound the dastard word! 

My gall thereat arises : 
Northward it hath this sense alone, 

That you, your conscience blinding, 
Shall bow your fool's nose to the stone, 

When slavery feels like grinding. 

*' 'Tis shame to see such painted sticks 

In Vane's and Winthrop's places, 
To see your spirit of Seventy-six 

Drag humbly in the traces, 
With slavery's lash upon her back, 

And herds of office-holders 
To shout applause, as, with a crack, 

It peels her patient shoulders. 

" We forefathers to such a rout ! — 
No, by my faith in God's word ! " 



Half rose the ghost, and half drew out 
The ghost of his old broadsword, 

Then thrust it slowly back again, 
And said, with reverent gesture, 

" No, Freedom, no ! blood should not 
stain 
The hem of thy white vesture. 

" I feel the soul in me draw near 

The mount of prophesying ; 
In this bleak wilderness I hear 

A John the Baptist aying ; 
Far in the east I see upleap 

The streaks of first forewarning, 
And they who sowed the light shall reap 

The golden sheaves of morning. 

" Child of our travail and our woe, 

Light in our day of sorrow, 
Through my rapt spirit I foreknow 

The glory of thy morrow ; 
I hear great steps, thatthroughthe shade 

Draw nigher still and nigher, 
And voices call like that which bade 

The prophet come up higher." 

I looked, no form mine eyes could find, 

I heard the red cock crowing, 
And through my window-chinks the 
wind 

A dismal tune was blowing ; _ 
Thought I, My neighbor Buckingham 

Hath somewhat in him gritty, 
Some Pilgrim-stuff that hates all sham, 

And he will print my ditty. 



ON THE CAPTURE OF CER- 
TAIN FUGITIVE SLAVES 
NEAR WASHINGTON. 

Look on who will in apathy, and stifle 

they who can, 
The sympathies, the hopes, the words, 

that make man truly man ; 
Let those whose hearts are dungeoned 

up with interest or with ease 
Consent to hear with quiet pulse of 

loathsome deeds like these ! 

I first drew in New England's air, and 

from her hardy breast 
Sucked in the tyrant-hating milk that 

will not let me rest ; 



82 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And if my words seem treason to the 

dullard and the tame, 
'T is but my Bay-State dialect, — our 

fathers spake the same ! 

Shame on the costly mockery of piling 
stone on stone 

To those who won our liberty, the 
heroes dead and gone, 

While we look coldly on, and see law- 
shielded ruffians slay 

The men who fain would win their own, 
the heroes of to-day ! 

Are we pledged to craven . silence ? O, 

fling it to the wind, 
The parchment wall that bars us from 

the least of human kind, — 
That makes us cringe and temporize, 

and dumbly stand at rest, 
While Pity's burning flood of words is 

red-hot in the breast ! 

Though we break our fathers' promise, 

we have nobler duties first ; 
The traitor to Humanity is the traitor 

most accursed ; 
Man is more than Constitutions; better 

rot beneath the sod, 
Than be true to Church and State while 

we are doubly false to God ! 

We owe allegiance to the State ; but 

deeper, truer, more, 
To the sympathies that God hath set 

within our spirit's core ; — 
•Our country claims our fealty ; we grant 

it so, but then 
Before Man made us citizens, great 

Nature made us men. 

He's true to God who's true to man ; 

wherever wrong is done, 
To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath 

the all-beholding sun, 
That wrong is also done to us ; and 

they are slaves most base, 
Whose love of right is for themselves, 

and not for all their race. 

God works for all. Ye cannot hem the 
hope of being free 

With parallels of latitude, with moun- 
tain-range or sea. 



Put golden padlocks on Truth's lips, be 

callous as ye will, 
From soul to soul, o'er all the world, 

leaps one electric thrill. 

Chain down your slaves with ignorance, 
ye cannot keep apart, 

With all your craft of tyranny, the hu- 
man heart from heart : 

When first the Pilgrims landed on the 
Bay State's iron shore, 

The word went forth that slavery should 
one day be no more. 

Out from the land of bondage 't is de- 
creed our slaves shall go, 

And signs to us are offered, as erst to 
Pharaoh ; 

If we are blind, their exodus, like Is- 
rael's of yore, 

Though a Red Sea is doomed to be, 
whose surges are of gore. 



'Tis ours to save our brethren, with 

peace and love to win 
Their darkened hearts from error, ere 

they harden it to sin ; 
But if before his duty man with listless 

spirit stands, 
Ere long the Great Avenger takes th< 

work from out his hands. 



' 



TO THE DANDELION. 



Dear common flower, that grow'st 
beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless 
gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, 
uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed 
that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
Which not the rich earth's ample 
round 
May match in wealth, — thou art 

more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer- 
blooms may be. 



TO THE DANDELION. — THE GHOST-SEER. 



83 



Gold such as thine ne'er drew the 
Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian 
seas, 
Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
'T is the spring's largess, which she 
scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish 
hand, 
Though most hearts never under- 
stand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded 
eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or 
time : 
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed 
bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravish- 
ment 
In the white lily's breezy tent, 
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when 

first 
From the dark green thy yellow 
circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the 
grass, — 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle 
graze, 
Where as the breezes pass, 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand 
ways, — 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy 
mass, 
Or whiten in the wind, — of waters 
blue 
That from the distance sparkle 
through 
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky 

above, 
Where one white cloud like a stray 
lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are 
linked with thee ; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's 
song, 
Who, from the dark old tree 



Beside the door, sang clearly all day 
long, 
And I, secure in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from heaven, which he 
could bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
When birds and flowers and I were 
happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
When thou, for all thy gold, so com- 
mon art ! 
Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 
Since each reflects in joy its scanty 
gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous 
secret show, 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 
And with a child's undoubting wis- 
dom look 
On all these living pages of God's 
book. 



THE GHOST-SEER. 

Ye who, passing graves by night, 
Glance not to the left nor right, 
Lest a spirit should arise, 
Cold and white, to freeze your eyes, 
Some weak phantom, which your doubt 
Shapes upon the dark without 
From the dark within, a guess 
At the spirit's deathlessness, 
Which ye entertain with fear 
In your self-built dungeon here, 
Where ye sell your God-given lives 
Just for gold to buy you gyves, — 
Ye without a shudder meet 
In the city's noonday street, 
Spirits sadder and more dread 
Than from out the clay have fled, 
Buried, beyond hope of light, 
In the body's haunted night ! 

See ye not that woman pale ? 
There are bloodhounds on her trail ! 
Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean, — 
For the soul their scent is keen, -?- 
Want and Sin, and Sin is last, — 
They have followed far and fast ; 



8 4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, 
Sin awakened with a growl. 
Ah, poor girl ! she had a right 
To a blessing from the light, 
Title-deeds to sky and earth 
God gave to her at her birth, 
But, before they were enjoyed, 
Poverty had made them void, 
And had drunk the sunshine up 
From all nature's ample cup, 
Leaving her a first-born's share 
In the dregs of darkness there. 
Often, on the sidewalk bleak, 
Hungry, all alone, and weak, 
She has seen, in night and storm, 
Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm, 
Which, outside the window-glass, 
Doubled all the cold, alas ! 
Till each ray that on her fell 
Stabbed her like an icicle, 
And she almost loved the wail 
Of the bloodhounds on her trail. 
Till the floor becomes her bier, 
She shall feel their pantings near, 
Close upon her very heels, 
Spite of all the din of wheels ; 
Shivering on her pallet poor, 
She shall hear them at the door 
Whine and scratch to be let in, 
Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin ! 

Hark ! that rustle of a dress, 

Stiff with lavish costliness ! 

Here comes one whose cheek would 

flush 
But to have her garment brush 
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin 
Wove the weary broidery in, 
Bending backward from her toil. 
Lest her tears the silk might soil, 
And, in midnight's chill and murk, 
Stitched her life into the work, 
Shaping from her bitter thought 
Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, 
Satirizing her despair 
With the emblems woven there. 
Little doth the wearer heed 
Of the heart-break in the brede ; 
A hyena by her side 
Skulks, down-looking, — it is Pride. 
He digs for her in the earth, 
Where lie all her claims of birth, 
With his foul paws rooting o'er 
Some long-buried ancestor, 



Who, perhaps, a statue won 
By the ill deeds he had done, 
By the innocent blood he shed, 
By the desolation spread 
Over happy villages, 
Blotting out the smile of peace. 

There walks Judas, he who sold 
Yesterday his Lord for gold, 
Sold God's presence in his heart 
For a proud step in the mart ; 
He hath dealt in flesh and blood, — 
At the bank his name is good, 
At the bank, and only there, 
'T is a marketable ware. 
In his eyes that stealthy gleam 
Was not learned of sky or stream, 
But it has the cold, hard glint 
Of new dollars from the mint. 
Open now your spirit's eyes, 
Look through that poor clay disguise 
Which has thickened, day by day, 
Till it keeps all light at bay, 
And his soul in pitchy gloom 
Gropes about its narrow tomb, 
From whose dank and slimy walls 
Drop by drop the horror falls. 
Look ! a serpent lank and cold 
Hugs his spirit fold on fold ; 
From his heart, all day and night, 
It doth suck God's blessed light. 
Drink it will, and drink it must, 
Till the cup holds naught but dust ; 
All day long he hears it hiss, 
Writhing in its fiendish bliss ; 
All night long he sees its eyes 
Flicker with foul ecstasies, 
As the spirit ebbs away 
Into the absorbing clay. 

Who is he that skulks, afraid 
Of the trust he has betrayed, 
Shuddering if perchance a gleam 
Of old nobleness should stream 
Through the pent, unwholesome room, 
Where his shrunk soul cowers in 

gloom, — 
Spirit sad beyond the rest 
By more instinct for the best? 
'T is a poet who was sent 
For a bad world's punishment, 
By compelling it to see 
Golden glimpses of To Be, 
By compelling it to hear 



THE GHOST-SEER. — STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS. 



85 



Songs that prove the angels near ; 

Who was sent to be the tongue 

Of the weak and spirit-wrung, 

Whence the fiery-winged Despair 

In men's shrinking eyes might flare. 

'T is our hope doth fashion us 

To base use or glorious : 

He who might have been a lark 

Of Truth's morning, from the dark 

Raining down melodious hope 

Of a freer, broader scope, 

Aspirations, prophecies. 

Of the spirit's full sunrise, 

Chose to be a bird of night, 

Which, with eyes refusing light, 

Hooted from some hollow tree 

Of the world's idolatry. 

'T is his punishment to hear 

Flutterings of pinions near, 

And his own vain wings to feel 

Drooping downward to his heel, 

All their grace and import lost, 

Burdening his weary ghost : 

Ever walking by his side 

He must see his angel guide, 

Who at intervals doth turn 

Looks on him so sadly stern, 

With such ever-new surprise 

Of hushed anguish in her eyes, 

That it seems the light of day 

From around him shrinks away, 

Or drops blunted from the wall 

Built around him by his fall. 

Then the mountains, whose white peaks 

Catch the morning's earliest streaks, 

He must see, where prophets sit, 

Turning east their faces lit, 

Whence, with footsteps beautiful, 

To the earth, yet dim and dull, 

They the gladsome tidings bring 

Of the sunlight's hastening : 

Never can these hills of bliss 

Be o'erclimbed by feet like his ! 

But enough ! O, do not dare 
From the next the veil to tear, 
Woven of station, trade, or dress, 
More obscene than nakedness, 
Wherewith plausible culture drapes 
Fallen Nature's myriad shapes ! 
Let us rather love to mark 
How the unextinguished spark 
Will shine through the thin disguise 
Of our customs, pomps, and lies, 



And, not seldom blown to flame, 
Vindicate its ancient claim. 
1844. 



STUDIES FOR TWO HEADS. 



Some sort of heart I know is hers, — 
I chanced to feel her pulse one night ; 

A brain she has that never errs, 
And yet is never nobly right ; 

It does not leap to great results, 
But, in some corner out of sight, 
Suspects a spot of latent blight, 
And, o'er the impatient infinite, 

She bargains, haggles, and consults. 

Her eye, — it seems a chemic test 

And drops upon you like an acid ; 
It bites you with unconscious zest, 

So clear and bright, so coldly placid ; 
It holds you quietly aloof, 

It holds, — and yet it does not win 
you ; 
It merely puts you to the proof 

And sorts what qualities are in you ; 
It smiles, but never brings you nearer, 

It lights, — hernature draws not nigh ; 
'T is but that yours is growing clearer 

To her assays ; — yes, try and try, 

You '11 get no deeper than her eye. 

There, you are classified : she 's gone 

Far, far away into herself ; 
Each with its Latin label on, 
Your poor components, one by one, 

Are laid upon their proper shelf 
In her compact and ordered mind, 
And what of you is left behind 
Is no more to her than the wind ; 
In that clear brain, which, day and night, 

No movement of the heart e'er jos- 
tles, 
Her friends are ranged on left and 

right, — 
Here, silex, hornblende, sienite ; 

There, animal remains and fossils. 

And yet, O subtile analyst, 

That canst each property detect 

Of mood or grain, that canst untwist 
Each tangled skein of intellect, 

And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare 



86 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Each mental nerve more fine than 
air, — 

O brain exact, that in thy scales 
Canst weigh the sun and never err, 

For once thy patient science fails, 

One problem still defies thy art ; — 
Thou never canst compute for her 
The distance and diameter 

Of any simple human heart. 



Hear him but speak, and you will feel 
The shadows of the Portico 

Over your tranquil spirit steal, 
To modulate all joy and woe 
To one subdued, subduing glow ; 

Above our squabbling business-hours, 

Like Phidian Jove's, his beauty lowers, 

His nature satirizes ours ; 
A form and front of Attic grace, 
He shames the higgling market-place, 

And dwarfs our more mechanic powers. 

What throbbing verse can fitly render 
That face, — so pure, so trembling-ten- 
der? 

Sensation glimmers through its rest, 
It speaks unmanacled by words, 

As full of motion as a nest 
That palpitates with unfledged birds ; 

'T is likest to Bethesda's stream, 
Forewarned through all its thrilling 
springs, 

White with the angel's coming gleam, 
And rippled with his fanning wings. 

Hear him unfold his plots and plans, 
And larger destinies seem man's ; 
You conjure from his glowing face 
The omen of a fairer race ; 
With one grand trope he boldly spans 

The gulf wherein so many fall, 

'Twixt possible and actual ; 
His first swift word, talaria-shod, 
Exuberant with conscious God, 
Out of the choir of planets blots 
The present earth with all its spots. 

Himself unshaken as the sky, 

His words, like whirlwinds, spin on high 

Systems and creeds pellmell together; 
'T is strange as to a deaf man's eye, 
While trees uprooted splinter by, 

The dumb turmoil of stormy weather; 

Less of iconoclast than shaper, 



His spirit, safe behind the reach 
Of the tornado of his speech, 

Burns calmly as a glowworm's taper. 

So great in speech, but, ah! in act 

So overrun with vermin troubles, 
The coarse, sharp-cornered, ugly fact 

Of life collapses all his bubbles : 
Had he but lived in Plato's day, 

He might, unless my fancy errs, 
Have shared that golden voice's sway 

O'er barefooted philosophers. 
Our nipping climate hardly suits 
The ripening of ideal fruits : 
His theories vanquish us all summer, 
But winter makes him dumb and 

dumber ; 
To see him 'mid life's needful things 

Is something painfully bewildering; 
He seems an angel with dipt wings 

Tied to a mortal wife and children, 
And by a brother seraph taken 
In the act of eating eggs and bacon. 
Like a clear fountain, his desire 

Exults and leaps toward the light, 
In every drop it says " Aspire ! 

Striving for more ideal height ; 
And as the fountain, falling thence, 

Crawls baffled through the common 
gutter, 
So, from his speech's eminence, 
He shrinks into the present tense, 

Unkinged by foolish bread and butter. 

Yet smile not, worldling, for in deeds 

Not all of life that 's brave and wise is; 
He strews an ampler future's seeds, 

'T is your fault if no harvest rises ; 
Smooth back the sneer ; for is it naughi 

That all he is and has is Beauty's ? 
By soul the soul's gains must b% 

wrought, 
The Actual claims our coarser thought, 

The Ideal hath its higher duties. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE 
BY GIOTTO. 

Can this be thou who, lean and pale, 

With such immitigable eye 
Didst look upon those writhing souls in 
bale, 

And note each vengeance, and pass by 



ON THE DEA TH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 



87 



Unmoved, save when thy heart by 

chance 
Cast backward one forbidden glance, 
And saw Francesca, with child's glee, 
Subdue and mount thy wild-horse 
knee 
And with proud hands control its fiery 
prance ? 

With half-drooped lids, and smooth, 
round brow, 

And eye remote, that inly sees 
Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now 

In some sea-lulled Hesperides, 
Thou movest through the jarring street, 
Secluded from the noise of feet 

By her gift-blossom in thy hand, 

Thy branch of palm from Holy 
Land ; — 
No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet. 

Yet there is something round thy lips 
That prophesies the coming doom, 
The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the 
eclipse 
Notches the perfect disk with gloom ; 
A something that would banish thee, 
And thine untamed pursuer be, 

From men and their unworthy fates, 
Though Florence had not shut her 
gates, 
And Grief had loosed her clutch and let 
thee free. 

Ah ! he who follows fearlessly 

The beckonings of a poet-heart 
Shall wander, and without the world's 
decree, 
A banished man in field and mart ; 
Harder than Florence' walls the bar 
Which with deaf sternness holds him far 
From home and friends, till death's 

release, 
And makes his only prayer for peace, 
Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong 
war ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A 
FRIEND'S CHILD. 

Death never came so nigh to me be- 
fore, 

Nor showed me his mild face : oft had 
I mused 



Of calm and peace and deep forgetful- 
ness, 

Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart 
at rest, 

And slumber sound beneath a flowery 
turf, 

Of faults forgotten, and an inner place 

Kept sacred for us in the heart of 
friends ; 

But these were idle fancies, satisfied 

With the mere husk of this great mys- 
tery. 

And dwelling in the outward shows of 
things. 

Heaven is not mounted to on wings of 
dreams, 

Nor doth the unthankful happiness of 
youth 

Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom 
to bloom, 

With earth's warm patch of sunshine 
well content : 

'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, 

Whose golden rounds are our calami- 
ties, 

Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer 
God 

The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes un- 
sealed. 

True is it that Death's face seems stern 
and cold, 

When he is sent to summon those we 
love, 

But all God's angels come to us dis- 
guised ; 

Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, 

One after other lift their frowning 
masks, 

And we behold the seraph's face be- 
neath, 

All radiant with the glory and the calm 

Of having looked upon the front of 
God. 

With every anguish of our earthly part 

The spirit's sight grows clearer ; this 
was meant 

When Jesus touched the blind man's 
lids with clay. 

Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent • 

To draw the unwilling bolts and set us 
free. 

He flings not ope the ivory gate of 
Rest, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Only the fallen spirit knocks at that, — 

But to benigner regions beckons us, 

To destinies of more rewarded toil. 

In the hushed chamber, sitting by the 
dead, 

It grates on us to hear the flood of life 

Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our 
loss. 

The bee hums on ; around the blos- 
somed vine 

Whirs the light humming-bird ; the 
cricket chirps ; 

The locust's shrill alarum stings the 
ear; 

Hard by, the cock shouts lustily ; from 
farm to farm, 

His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, 

Answer, till far away the joyance dies : 

We never knew before how God had 
filled 

The summer air with happy living 
sounds ; 

All round us seems an overplus of life, 

And yet the one dear heart lies cold and 
still. 

It is most strange, when the great mir- 
acle 

Hath for our sakes been done, when 
we have had 

Our inwardest experience of God, 

When with his presence still the room 
expands, 

And is awed after him, that naught is 
changed, 

That Nature's face looks unacknowl- 
edging, 

And the mad world still dances heed- 
less on 

After its butterflies, and gives no sign. 

'T is hard at first to see it all aright : 

In vain Faith blows her trump to sum- 
mon back 

Her scattered troop: yet, through the 
clouded glass 

Of our own bitter tears, we learn to 
look 

Undazzled on the kindness of God's 
face ; 

Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone 
shines through. 

It is no little thing, when a fresh soul 
And a fresh heart, with their unmeas- 
ured scope 



For good, not gravitating earthward 

yet, 
But circling in diviner periods, 
Are sent into the world, — no little thing, 
When this unbounded possibility 
Into the outer silence is withdrawn. 
Ah, in this world, where every guiding 

thread 
Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, 

death, 
The visionary hand of Might-have-been 
Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim ! 

How changed, dear friend, are thy part 

and thy child's ! 
He bends above thy cradle now, or 

holds 
His warning finger out to be thy guide ; 
Thou art the nursling now ; he watches 

thee 
Slow learning, one by one, the secret 

things 
Which are to him used sights of every 

day ; 
He smiles to see thy wondering glances 

con 
The grass and pebbles of the spirit- 
world, 
To thee miraculous ; and he will teach 
Thy knees their due observances of 

prayer. 
Children are God's apostles, day by day 
Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, 

and peace ; 
Nor hath thy babe his mission left un- 
done. 
To me, at least, his going hence hath 

given 
Serener thoughts and nearer to the 

skies, 
And opened a new fountain in my heart 
For thee, my friend, and all : and O, 

if Death 
More near approaches meditates, and 

clasps 
Even now some dearer, more reluctant 

hand, 
God, strengthen thou my faith, that I 

may see 
That 'tis thine angel, who, with loving 

haste, 
Unto the service of the inner shrine. 
Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss. 



EURYDICE.—SHE CAME AND WENT. 



89 



EURYDICE. 

Heaven's cup held down to me I drain, 
The sunshine mounts and spurs my 

brain ; 
Bathing in grass, with thirsty eye 
I suck the last drop of the sky ; 
With each hot sense I draw to the lees 
The quickening out-door influences, 
And empty to each radiant comer 
A supernaculum of summer : 
Not, Bacchus, all thy grosser juice 
Could bring enchantment so profuse, 
Though for its press each grape-bunch 

had 
The white feet of an Oread. 

Through our coarse art gleam, now and 

then, 
The features of angelic men : 
'Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint 
Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint ; 
The dauber's botch no more obscures 
The mighty master's portraitures. 
And who can say what luckier beam 
The hidden glory shall redeem, 
F01 what chance clod the soil may 

wait 
To stumble on its nobler fate, 
Or why, to his unwarned abode, 
Still by surprises comes the God? 
Some moment, nailed on sorrow's cross, 
May meditate a whole youth's loss, 
Some windfall joy, we know not whence, 
Redeem a lifetime's rash expense, 
And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark, 
Stripped of their simulated dark, 
Mountains of gold that pierce the sky, 
Girdling its valleyed poverty. 

I feel ye, childhood's hopes, return, 
With olden heats my pulses burn, — 
Mine be the self-forgetting sweep, 
The torrent impulse swift and wild, 
Wherewith Taghkanic's rockborn child 
Dares gloriously the dangerous leap, 
And, in his sky-descended mood, 
Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, 
By touch of bravery's simple wand, 
To amethyst and diamond, 
Proving himself no bastard slip, 
But the true granite-cradled one, 
Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, 
The cloud-embracing mountain's son ! 



Prayer breathed in vain ! no wish's 

sway 
Rebuilds the vanished yesterday ; 
For plated wares of Sheffield stamp 
We gave the old Aladdin's lamp ; 
'T is we are changed : ah, whither went 
That undesigned abandonment, 
That wise, unquestioning content, 
W r hich could erect its microcosm 
Out of a weed's neglected blossom, 
Could call up Arthur and his peers 
By a low moss's clump of spears, 
Or, in its shingle trireme launched, 
Where Charles in some green inlet 

branched, 
Could venture for the golden fleece 
And dragon-watched Hesperides, 
Or, from its ripple-shattered fate, 
Ulysses' chances re-create ? 

When, heralding life's every phase, 
There glowed a goddess-veiling haze, 
A plenteous, forewarning grace, 
Like that more tender dawn that flies 
Before the full moon's ample rise ? 
"Methinks thy parting glory shines 
Through yonder grove of singing pines ; 
At that elm-vista's end I trace 
Dimly thy sad leave-taking face, 
Eurydice ! Eurydice ! 
The tremulous leaves repeat to me " 
Eurydice ! Eurydice ! 
No gloomier Orcus swallows thee 
Than the unclouded sunset's glow; 
Thine is at least Elysian woe ; 
Thou hast Good's natural decay, 
And fadest like a star away 
Into an atmosphere whose shine 
With fuller day o'ermasters thine, 
Entering defeat as 't were a shrine ; 
For us, — we turn life's diary o'er 
To find but one word, — Nevermore. 
1845. 



SHE CAMfe AND WENT. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves un- 
bent, 
So is my memory thrilled and 
stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. 



9 o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless con- 
tent, 
So my soul held that moment's heav- 
en ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring 
heaps 

The orchards full of bloom and scent, 
So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 

1 only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 
Through the low doorway of my tent; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

O, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And life's last oil is nearly spent, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 



THE CHANGELING. 

I had a little daughter, 

And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature, 

Might in some dim wise divine 
The depth of his infinite patience 

To this wayward soul of mine. 

I know not how others saw her, 

But to me she was wholly fair, 
And the light of the heaven she came 
from 

Still lingered and gleamed in her 
hair ; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 

And as many changes took, 
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 
Upon me, her kneeling lover, 

How it leaped from her lips to her eye- 
lids, 
And dimpled her wholly over, 

Till her outstretched hands smiled also, 
And I almost seemed to see 



The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to 

me ! 

She had been with us scarce a twelve- 
month, 

And it hardly seemed a day, 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my little daughter away ; 
Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 

But loosed the hampering strings, 
And when they had opened her cage- 
door, ■ 

My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child, 
That seems like her bud in full blossom, 

And smiles as she never smiled : 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie, 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky. 

As weak, yet as trustful also ; 

For the whole year long I see 
All the wonders of faithful Nature 

Still worked for the love of me ; 
Winds wander, and dews drip earth- 
ward, 

Rain falls, suns rise and set, 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet 

This child is not mine as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bliss it upon my breast ; 
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle 

And sits in my little one's chair, 
And the light of the heaven she 'sgone 
to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 



THE PIONEER. 

What man would live coffined with 
brick and stone. 

Imprisoned from the influences of 
air, 

And cramped with selfish land- 
marks everywhere, 



THE PIONEER.— LONGING. 



9i 



When all before him stretches, furrow- 
less and lone, 
The unmapped prairie none can fence 
or own ? 

What man would read and read the 
selfsame faces, 
And, like the marbles which the 

windmill grinds, 
Rub smooth forever with the same 
smooth minds, 
This year retracing last year's, every 
year's, dull traces, 
When there are woods and un-man- 
stifled places ? 

What man o'er one old thought 
would pore and pore, 
Shut like a book between its cov- 
ers thin 
For every fool to leave his dog's- 
ears in, 
When solitude is his, and God forever- 
more, 
Just for the opening of a paltry door ? 

What man would watch life's oozy 
element 
Creep Letheward forever, when he 

might 
Down some great river drift be- 
yond men's sight, 
To where the undethroned forest's 
royal tent 
Broods with its hush o'er half a con- 
tinent ? 

What man with men would push and 
altercate, 
Piecing out crooked means for 

crooked ends, 
When he can have the skies and 
woods for friends, 
Snatch back the rudder of his undis- 
m an tied fate, 
And in himself be ruler, church, and 
state ? 

Cast leaves and feathers rot in last 

year's nest, 
The winged brood, flown thence, 

new dwellings plan ; 
The serf of his own Past is not a 

man ; 



To change and change is life, to move 
and never rest ; — 
Not what we are, but what we hope, 
is best. 

The wild, free woods make no man 
halt or blind ; 
Cities rob men of eyes and hands 

and feet, 
Patching one whole of many in- 
complete ; 
The general preys upon the individual 
mind, 
And each alone is kelpless as the 
wind. 

Each man is some man's servant ; 
every soul 
Is by some other's presence quite 

discrowned ; 
Each owes the next through all the 
imperfect round, 
Yet not with mutual help ; each man is 
his own goal, 
And the whole earth must stop to pay 
his toll. 

Here, life the undiminished man de- 
mands ; 
New faculties stretch out to meet 

new wants ; 
What Nature asks, that Nature 
also grants ; 
Here man is lord, not drudge, of eyes 
and feet and hands, 
And to his life is knit with hourly 
bands. 

Come out, then, from the old thoughts 
and old ways, 
Before you harden to a crystal cold 
Which the new life can shatter, but 
not mould ; 
Freedom for you still waits, still, look- 
ing backward, stays, 
But widens still the irretrievable 
space. 



LONGING. 

Of all the myriad moods of mind # 
That through the soul come thronging, 

Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 
So beautiful as Longing ? 



9 2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The thing we long for, that we are 
For one transcendent moment, 

Before the Present poor and bare 
Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, 

Glows down the wished Ideal, 
And Longing moulds in clay what Life 

Carves in the marble Real ; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; — 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will 

With our poor earthward striving ; 
We quench it that we may be still 

Content with merely living ; 
But, would we learn that heart's full 
scope 

Which we are hourly wronging, 
Our lives must climb from hope to hope 

And realize our longing. 

Ah ! let us hope that to our praise " 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways, 

But when the spirit beckons, — 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction, 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



ODE TO FRANCE. 

FEBRUARY, 1848. 



As, flake by flake, the beetling ava- 
lanches 
Build up their imminent crags of 
noiseless snow, 
Till some chance thrill the loosened 
ruin launches 
And the blind havoc leaps unwarned 
below, 
So grew and gathered through the silent 
years 
The madness of a People, wrong by 
wrong. 
There seemed no strength in the dumb 
toiler's tears, — 
No strength in suffering ; — but the 
Past was strong : 



The brute despair of trampled centuries 
Leaped up with one hoarse yell and 

snapped its bands, 
Groped for its right with horny, 
callous hands, 
And stared around for God with blood- 
shot eyes. 
What wonder if those palms were all 
too hard 
For nice distinctions, — if that maenad 
throng — 
They whose thick atmosphere no bard 
Had shivered with the lightning of his 
song, 
Brutes with the memories and desires 

of men, 
Whose chronicles were writ with iron 
pen, 
In the crooked shoulder and the 
forehead low — 
Set wrong to balance wrong, 
And physicked woe with woe ? 



They did as they were taught ; n, t 

theirs the blame, 
If men who scattered firebrands reape i 
the flame : 
They trampled Peace beneath the\r 
savage feet, 
And by her golden tresses drew 
Mercy along the pavement of th \ 
street. 
O Freedom ! Freedom ! is thy morn- 
ing-dew 
So gory red ? Alas, thy light had 

ne'er 
Shone in upon the chaos of their 
lair ! 
They reared to thee such symbol as 
they knew, 
And worshipped it with flame and 

blood, 
A Vengeance, axe in hand, that 
stood 
Holding a tyrant's head up by the 
clotted hair. 



What wrongs the Oppressor suffered, 
these we know ; 
These have found piteous voice in 
song and prose ; 



ODE TO FRANCE. 



93 



But for the Oppressed, their darkness 
and their woe, 
Their grinding centuries, — what 
Muse had those ? 
Though hall and palace had nor eyes 
nor ears, 
Hardening a people's heart to sense- 
less stone, 
Thou knowest them, O Earth, that 
drank their tears, 
O Heaven, that heard their inarticu- 
late moan ! 
They noted down their fetters, link by 

link ; 
Coarse was the hand that scrawled, and 
red the ink ; 
Rude was their score, as suits un- 
lettered men, — 
Notched with a headsman's axe upon 

a block : 
What marvel if, when came the aveng- 
ing shock, 
'T was Ate, not Urania, held the 
pen ? 



With eye averted and an anguished 
frown, 
Loathingly glides the Muse through 
scenes of strife, 
Where, like the heart of Vengeance up 
and down, 
Throbs in its framework the blood- 
muffled knife ; 
Blow are the steps of Freedom, but her 
feet 
Turn never backward : hers no bloody 
glare ; 
Her light is calm, and innocent, and 
sweet, 
And where it enters there is no de- 
spair : 
Not first on palace and cathedral 

spire 
Quivers and gleams that unconsuming 
fire ; 
While these stand black against her 
morning skies, 
The peasant sees it leap from peak to 
peak 
Along his hills ; the craftsman's burn- 
ing eyes 
Own with cool tears its influence moth- 
er-meek ; 



It lights the poet's heart up like a 

star ; — 
Ah ! while the tyrant deemed it still 
afar, 
And twined with golden threads his 
futile snare, 
That swift, convicting glow all round 
him ran ; 
'T was close beside him there, 
Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of 
man. 



O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's 
fruit ? 
A dynasty plucked out as 't were ^ 

weed 
Grown rankly in a night, that leaves 
no seed ! 
Could eighteen years strike down no 
deeper root ? 
But now thy vulture eye was turned 
on Spain, — _ 
A shout from Paris, and thy crown 
falls off, 
Thy race has ceased to reign, 
And thou become a fugitive and scoff: 
Slippery the feet that mount by 
stairs of gold, 
And weakest of all fences one of 
steel ; — 
Go and keep school again like him 
of old, 
The Syracusan tyrant ; — thou mayst 

feel 
Royal amid a birch-swayed common- 
weal ! 



Not long can he be ruler who allows 
His time to run before him ; thou 
wast naught 
Soon as the strip of gold about thy 
brows 
Was no more emblem of the People's 
thought : 
Vain were thy bayonets against the 
foe 
Thou hadst to cope with ; thou didst 
wage 
War not with Frenchmen merely ; — 
no, 
Thy strife was with the Spirit of the 
Age, 



94 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The invisible Spirit whose first breath 
divine 
Scattered thy frail endeavor, 
And, like poor last year's leaves, 
whirled thee and thine 
Into the Dark forever ! 



Is here no triumph? Nay, what 
though 
The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile 
should pour 
Along its arteries a shrunken flow, 
And the idle canvas droop around the 
shore ? 
These do not make a state, 
Nor keep it great ; 
I think God made 
The earth for man, not trade ; 
And where each humblest human crea- 
ture 
Can stand, no more suspicious or 

afraid, 
Erect and kingly in his right of nature, 
To heaven and earth knit with harmo- 
nious ties, — 
Where I behold the exultation 
Of manhood glowing in those eyes 
That had been dark for ages, — 
Or only lit with bestial loves and 
rages — 
There I behold a Nation : 
The France which lies 
Between the Pyrenees and Rhine 
Is the least part of France ; 
I see her rather in the soul whose shine 
Burns through the craftsman's grimy 
countenance, 
In the new energy divine 
Of Toil's enfranchised glance. 



And if it be a dream, — 
If the great Future be the little Past 
'Neath a new mask, which drops and 

shows at last 
The same weird, mocking face to 
balk and blast, — 
Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the 
theme, 
And the Tyrtaean harp 
Loves notes more resolute^ and 
sharp, 



Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot 
and fast : 
Such visions are of morning, 
Theirs is no vague forewarning, 
The dreams which nations dream corne 
true, 
And shape the world anew ; 
If this be a sleep, 
Make it long, make it deep, 
O Father, who sendest the harvests 
men reap ! 
While Labor so sleepeth 
His sorrow is gone, 
No longer he weepeth, 
But smileth and steepeth 

His thoughts in the dawn ; 
He heareth Hope yonder 

Rain, lark-like, her fancies, 
His dreaming hands wander 

'Mid heart's-ease and pansies ; 
"'Tisadream! 'T is a vision 1" 

Shrieks Mammon aghast ; 
"The day's broad derision 

Will chase it at last ; 
Ye are mad, ye have taken 
A slumbering kraken 

For firm land of the Past ! '* 
Ah ! if he awaken, 

God shield us all then, 

If this dream rudely shaken 

Shall cheat him again ! 



Since first I heard our North wind 

blow, 
Since first I saw Atlantic throw 
On our fierce rocks his thunderous 

snow, 
I loved thee, Freedom ; as a boy 
The rattle of thy shield at Marathon 
Did with a Grecian joy 
Through all my pulses run ; 
But I have learned to love thee now 
Without the helm upon thy gleaming 
brow, 
A maiden mild and undefiled 
Like her who bore the world's redeem- 
ing child ; 
And surely never did thy altars glance 
With purer fires than now in France ; 
While, in their bright white flashes, 
Wrong's shadow, backward cast, 
Waves cowering o'er the ashes 
Of the dead, blaspheming Past, 



ANTI-APIS. 



95 



O'er the shapes of fallen giants, 
His own unburied brood, 
Whose dead hands clench defiance 

At the overpowering Good : 
And down the happy future runs a flood 

Of prophesying light ; 
It shows an Earth no longer stained 

with blood, 
Blossom and fruit where now we see the 
bud 
Of Brotherhood and Right. 



ANTI-APIS. 

Praisest Law, friend? We, too, love 
it much as they that love it best ; 

'Tisthe deep, august foundation, where- 
on Peace and Justice rest ; 

On the rock primeval, hidden in the 
Past its bases be. 

Block by block the endeavoring Ages 
built it up to what we see. 

But dig down : the Old unbury ; thou 

shalt find on every stone 
That each Age hath carved the symbol 

of what god to them was known. 
Ugly shapes and brutish sometimes, 

but the fairest that they knew ; 
If their sight were dim and earthward, 

yet their hope and aim were true. 

Surely as the unconscious needle feels 

the far-off loadstar draw, 
So strives every gracious nature to 

at-one itself with law ; 
And the elder Saints and Sages laid 

their pious framework right 
By a theocratic instinct covered from 

the people's sight. 

As their gods were, so their laws were ; 

Thor the strong could reave and 

steal, 
So through many a peaceful inlet tore 

the Norseman's eager keel ; 
But a new law came when Christ came, 

and not blameless, as before, 
Can we, paying him our lip-tithes, give 

our lives and faiths to Thor. 



Law is holy : ay, but what law ? Is 
there nothing more divine 

Than the patched-up broils of Con- 
gress, -— venal, full of meat and 
wine? 

Is there, say you, nothing higher? 
Naught, God save us ! that tran- 
scends 

Laws of cotton texture, wove by vulgar 
men for vulgar ends ? 

Did Jehovah ask their counsel, or sub- 
mit to them a plan, 

Ere he filled with loves, hopes, long- 
ings, this aspiring heart of man ? 

For their edict does the soul wait, ere it 
swing round to the pole 

Of the true, the free, the God-willed, 
all that makes it be a soul ? 

Law is holy ; but not your law, ye who 
keep the tablets whole 

While ye dash the Law to pieces, shat- 
ter it in life and soul ; 

Bearing up the Ark is lightsome, golden 
Apis hid within, 

While we Levites share the offerings, 
richer by the people's sin. 

Give to Caesar what is Caesar's ? yes, 
but tell me, if you can, 

Is this superscription Caesar's here upon 

our brother man ? 
•Is not here some other's image, dark 
and sullied though it be, 

In this fellow-soul that worships, strug- 
gles Godward even as we ? 

It was not to such a future that the May- 
flower's prow was turned ; 

Not to such a faith the martyrs clung, 
exulting as they burned ; 

Not by such laws are men fashioned, 
earnest, simple, valiant, great 

In the household virtues whereon rests 
the unconquerable state. 

Ah ! there is a higher gospel, overhead 
the God-roof springs, 

And each glad, obedient planet like a 
golden shuttle sings 

Through the web which Time is weav- 
ing in his never-resting loom, — 

Weaving seasons many-colored, bring- 
ing prophecy to doom. 



9 6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Think you Truth a farthing rushlight, 
to be pinched out when you will 

With your deft official fingers, and your 
politicians' skill ? 

Is your God a wooden fetish, to be hid- 
den out of sight 

That his block eyes may not see you do 
the thing that is not right ? 

But the Destinies think not so ; to their 

judgment-chamber lone 
Comes no noise of popular clamor, 

there Fame's trumpet is not blown ; 
Your majorities they reck not ; — that 

you grant, but then you say 
That you differ with them somewhat, — 
which is stronger, you or they ? 

Patient are they as the insects that 

build islands in the deep ; 
They hurl not the bolted thunder, but 

their silent way they keep ; 
Where they have been that we know; 

where empires towered that were 

not just ; 
Lo ! the skulking wild fox scratches in 

a little heap of dust. 
1851. 



A PARABLE. 

Said Christ our Lord, "I will go and 
see 

How the men, my brethren, believe in 
me." 

He passed not again through the gate 
of birth, 

But made himself known to the chil- 
dren of earth. 

Then said the chief priests, and rulers, 

and kings, 
" Behold, now, the Giver of all good 

things ; 
Go to, let us welcome with pomp and 

state 
Him who alone is mighty and great." 

With carpets of gold the ground they 

spread 
Wherever the Son of Man should tread, 



And in palace-chambers lofty and rare 
They lodged him, and served him with 
kingly fare. 

Great organs surged through arches dim 
Their jubilant floods in praise of him ; 
And in church, and palace, and judg- 
ment-hall, 
He saw his image high over all. 

But still, wherever his steps they led, 
The Lord in sorrow bent down his head, 
And from under the heavy foundation- 
stones, 
The son of Mary heard bitter groans. 

And in church, and palace, and judg- 
ment-hall, 

He marked great fissures that rent the 
wall, 

And opened wider and yet more wide 

As the living foundation heaved and 
sighed. 

" Have ye founded your thrones and 

altars, then, 
On the bodies and souls of living men? 
And think ye that building shall endure, 
Which shelters the noble aud crushes 

the poor ? 

" With gates of silver and bars of gold 
Ye have fenced my sheep from their 

Father's fold ; 
I have heard the dropping of their tears 
In heaven these eighteen hundred 

years." 

" O Lord and Master, not ours the guilt, 
We build but as our fathers built ; 
Behold thine images, how they stand, 
Sovereign and sole, through all our land. 

' Our task is hard, — with sword and 

flame 
To hold thy earth forever the same, 
And with sharp crooks of steel to keep 
Still, as thou leftest them, thy sheep." 

Then Christ sought out an artisan, 
A low-browed, stunted, haggard man, 
And a motherless girl, whose ringers thin 
Pushed from her faintly want and sin. 



ODE.— LINES. 



97 



These set he in the midst of them, 

And as they drew back their garment- 
hem, 

For fear of defilement, " Lo, here," 
said he, 

" The images ye have made of me I " 



ODE 

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF 
THE INTRODUCTION OF THECOCHIT- 
UATE WATER INTO THE CITY OF 
BOSTON. 

M y name is Water : I have sped 
Through strange, dark ways, untried 
before, 

By pure desire of friendship led, 
Cochituate's ambassador ; 

He sends four royal gifts by me : 

Long life, health, peace, and purity. 

I 'm Ceres' cup-bearer ; 1 pour, 

For flowers and fruits and all their kin, 

Her crystal vintage, from of yore 
Stored in old Earth's selectest bin, 

Flora's Falernian ripe, since God 

The wine-press of the deluge trod. 

In that far isle whence, iron-willed, 
The New World's sires their bark 
unmoored, 
The fairies' acorn-cups I filled 

Upon the toadstool's silver board, 
And, 'neath Heme's oak, for Shake- 
speare's sight, 
Strewed moss and grass with diamonds 
bright. 

No fairies in the Mayflower came, 
And, lightsome as I sparkle here, 

For Mother Bay State, busy dame, 
I 've toiled and drudged this many a 
year, 

Throbbed in her engines' iron veins, 

Twirled myriad spindles for her gains. 

I, too, can weave : the warp I set 
Through which the sun his shuttle 
throws, 
And, bright as Noah saw it, yet 
For you the arching rainbow glows, 
7 



A sight in Paradise denied 

To unfallen Adam and his bride. 

When Winter held me in his grip, 
You seized and sent me o'er the wave. 

Ungrateful ! in a prison-ship ; 
But I forgive, not long a slave, 

For, soon as summer south-winds blew, 

Homeward I fled, disguised as dew. 

For countless services I *m fit, 
Of use, of pleasure, and of gain, 

But lightly from all bonds I flit, 

Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain ; 

From mill and wash-tub I escape, 

And take in heaven my proper shape. 

So, free myself, to-day, elate 

I come from far o'er hill and mead, 

And here, Cochituate's envoy, wait 
To be your blithesome Ganymede, 

And brim your cups with nectar true 

That never will make slaves of you. 



LINES 

SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO 
ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD 
BATTLE-GROUND. 

The same good blood that now refills 
The dotard Orient's shrunken veins, 
The same whose vigor westward thrills, 
Bursting Nevada's silver chains, 
Poured here upon the April grass, 
Freckled with red the herbage new ; 
On reeled the battle's trampling mass, 
Back to the ash the bluebird flew. 

Pouredhere in vain ; — that sturdy blood 
Was meant to make the earth more 

green, 
But in a higher, gentler mood 
Than broke this April noon serene ; 
Two graves are here : to mark the place, 
At head and foot, an unhewn stone, 
O'er which the herald lichens trace 
The blazon of Oblivion. 

These men were brave enough, and true 
To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed ; 
What brought them here they never 
knew, 



98 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



They fought as suits the English breed; 
They came three thousand miles, and 

died, 
To keep the Past upon its throne ; 
Unheard, beyond the ocean tide, 
Their English mother made her moan. 

The turf that covers them no thrill 
Sends up to fire the heart and brain ; 
No stronger purpose nerves the will, 
No hope renews its youth again : 
From farm to farm the Concord glides, 
And trails my fancy with its flow ; 
O'erhead the balanced hen-hawk slides, 
Twinned in the river's heaven below. 

But go, whose Bay State bosom stirs, 
Proud of thy birth and neighbor's right, 
Where sleep the heroic villagers 
Borne red and stiff from Concord fight ; 
Thought Reuben, snatching down his 

gun, 
Or Seth, as ebbed the life away, 
What earthquake rifts would shoot and 

run 
World-wide from that short April fray? 

What then? With heart and hand they 

wrought, 
According to their village light ; 
'T was for the Future that they fought, 
Their rustic faith in what was right. 
Upon earth's tragic stage they burst 
Unsummoned, in the humble sock ; 
Theirs the fifth act ; the curtain first 
Rose long ago on Charles's block. 

Their graves have voices : if they threw 
Dice charged with fates beyond their 

ken, 
Yet to their instincts they were true, 
And had the genius to be men. 
Fine privilege of Freedom's host, 
Of even foot-soldiers for the Right ! — 
For centuries dead, ye are not lost, 
Your graves send courage forth, and 

might. 



We, too, have autumns, when our leaves 
Drop loosely through the dampened 
air, 



When all our good seems bound in 
sheaves, 
And we stand reaped and bare. 

Our seasons have no fixed returns, 
Without our will they come and go ; 

At noon our sudden summer burns, 
Ere sunset all is snow. 

But each day brings less summer cheer, 
Crimps more our ineffectual" spring, 

And something earlier every year 
Our singing birds take wing. 

As less the olden glow abides, 
And less the chillier heart aspires, 

With drift-wood beached in past spring- 
tides 
We light our sullen fires. 

By the pinched rushlight's starving 
beam 
We cower and strain our wasted sight, 
To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by 
seam, 
In the long arctic night. 

It was not so — we once were young — 
When Spring, to womanly Summer 
turning, 
Her dew-drops on each grass-blade 
strung, 
In the red sunrise burning. 

We trusted then, aspired, believed 
That earth could be remade to-mor- 
row ; — 

Ah, why be ever undeceived ? 
Why give up faith for sorrow ? 

O thou, whose days are yet all spring, 
Faith, blighted once, is past retriev- 
ing ; 

Experience is a dumb, dead thing ; 
The victory 's in believing. 



FREEDOM. 

Are we, then, wholly fallen ? Can it be 
That thou, North wind, that from thy 

mountains bringest 
Their spirit to our plains, and thou, 

blue sea. 



FREEDOM. — BIBLIOLA TEES 



99 



Who on our rocks thy wreaths of free- 
dom flingest, 
As on an altar, — can it be that ye 
Have wasted inspiration on dead ears, 
.Dulled with the too familiar clank of 

chains ? 
The people's heart is like a harp for 

years 
Hung where some petrifying torrent 

rains 
Its slow-incrusting spray : the stiffened 

chords 
Faint and more faint make answer to 

the tears 
That drip upon them : idle are all words : 
Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone 
Deep buried 'neath that ever-thicken- 
ing stone. 

We are not free : Freedom doth not 

consist 
In musing with our faces toward the 

Past, 
While petty cares, and crawling inter- 
ests, twist 
' Their spider-threads about us, which at 

last 
Grow strong as iron chains, to cramp 

and bind 
[n formal narrowness heart, soul, and 

mind. 
Freedom is recreated year by year, 
In hearts wide open on the Godward 

side, 
In souls calm-cadenced as the whirling 

sphere, 
In minds that sway the future like a tide. 
No broadest creeds can hold her, and 

no codes ; 
She chooses men for her august abodes, 
Building them fair and fronting to the 

dawn ; 
Yet, when we seek her, we but find a 

few 
Light footprints, leading morn -ward 

through the dew : 
Before the day had risen, she was gone. 

And we must follow : swiftly runs she 
on, 

And, if our steps should slacken in de- 
spair, 

Half turns hei face, half smiles through 
golden hair, 



Forever yielding, never wholly won : 
Thatis not love which pauses in the race 
Two close-linked names on fleeting 

sand to trace ; 
Freedom gained yesterday is no more 

ours ; 
Men gather but dry seeds of last year's 

flowers ; 
Still there 's a charm ungranted, still a 

grace, 
Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained, 
Makes us Possession's languid hand 

let fall ; 
*T is but a fragment of ourselves is 

gained, — 
The Future brings us more, but never 

all. 

And, as the finder of some unknown 
realm, 

Mounting a summit whence he thinks 
to see 

On either side of him the imprisoning 
sea, 

Beholds, above the clouds that over- 
whelm 

The valley-land, peak after snowy peak 

Stretch out of sight, each like a silver 
helm 

Beneath its plume of smoke, sublime 
and bleak, 

And what he thought an island finds 
to be 

A continent, to him first oped, — so we 

Can from our height of Freedom look 
along 

A boundless future,ours if we be strong ; 

Or if we shrink, better remount our 
ships 

And, fleeing God's express design, trace 
back 

The hero-freighted Mayflower's pro- 
phet-track 

To Europe, entering her blood-red 
eclipse. 



BIBLIOLATRES. 

Bowing thyself in dust before a Book, 
And thinking the great God is thine 

alone, 
O rash iconoclast, thou wilt not brook 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



What gods the heathen carves in wood 

and stone, 
As if the Shepherd who from outer cold 
Leads all his shivering lambs to one 

sure fold 
Were careful for the fashion of his 

crook. 

There is no broken reed so poor and 

base, 
No rush, the bending tilt of swamp-fly 

blue, 
But he therewith the ravening wolf 

can chase, 
And guide his flock to springs and 

pastures new ; 
Through ways unlooked for, and 

through many lands, 
Far from the rich folds built with hu- 
man hands, 
The gracious footprints of his love I 

trace. 

And what art thou, own brother of the 
clod, 

That from his hand the crook would 
snatch away 

And shake instead thy dry and sapless 
rod, 

To scare the sheep out of the whole- 
some day ? 

Yea, what art thou, blind, unconverted 
Jew, 

That with thy idol-volume's covers two 

Wouldst make a jail to coop the living 
God? 

Thou hear'st not well the mountain 
organ-tones 

By prophet ears from Hor and Sinai 
caught, 

Thinking the cisterns of those He- 
brew brains 

Drew dry the springs of the All-know- 
er's thought, 

Nor shall thy lips be touched with liv- 
ing fire, 

Who blow'st old altar-coals with sole 
desire 

To weld anew the spirit's broken 
chains. 

God is not dumb, that he should speak 
no more ; 

If thou hast wanderings in the wilder- 
ness 



And find'st not Sinai, 't is thy soul is 

poor ; 
There towers the mountain of the 

Voice no less, 
Which whoso seeks shall find, but he 

who bends, 
Intent on manna still and mortal ends, 
Sees it not, neither hears its thundered 

lore. 

Slowly the Bible of the race is writ, 
And not on paper leaves nor leaves of 

stone ; 
Each age, each kindred, adds a verse 

to it, 
Texts of despair or hope, of joy 01 

moan. 
While swings the sea, while mists the 

mountains shroud, 
While thunder's surges burst on cliffs 

of cloud, 
Still at the prophets' feet the nations 

sit. 



BEAVER BROOK. 

Hushed with broad sunlight lies the 

hill, 
And, minuting the long day's loss, 
The cedar's shadow, slow and still, 
Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss. 

Warm noon brims full the valley's cup, 
The aspen's leaves are scarce astir; 
Only the little mill sends up 
Its busy, never-ceasing burr. 

Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems 
The road along the mill-pond's brink, 
From 'neath the arching barberry- 
stems, 
My footstep scares the shy chewink. 

Beneath a bony buttonwood 
The mill's red door lets forth the din ; 
The whitened miller, dust-imbued, 
Flits past the square of dark within. 

No mountain torrent's strength is here ; 
Sweet Beaver, child of forest still, 
Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, 
And gently waits the miller's will. 



KOSSUTH.— TO LAMARTINE. 



Swift slips Undine along the race 
Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, 
Floods the dull wheel with light and 

grace, 
And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge 

round. 

The miller dreams not at what cost 
The quivering millstones hum and 

whirl, 
Nor how for every turn are tost 
Armfuls of diamond and of pearl. 

But Summer cleared my happier eyes 
With drops of some celestial juice, 
To see how Beauty underlies, 
Forevermore each form of Use. 

And more : methought I saw that flood, 
Which now so dull and darkling steals, 



Thick, here and there, with human 

blood, 
To turn the world's laborious wheels. 

No more than doth the miller there, 
Shut in our several cells, do we 
Know with what waste of beauty rare 
Moves every day's machinery. 

Surely the wiser time shall come 
When this fine overplus of might, 
No longer sullen, slow, and dumb, 
Shall leap to music and to light. 

In that new childhood of the Earth 
Life of itself shall dance and play, 
Fresh blood in Time's shrunk veins 

make mirth, 
And labor meet delight half-way. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



KOSSUTH. 

A race of nobles may die out, 
A royal line may leave no heir ; 
Wise Nature sets no guards about 
Her pewter plate and wooden ware. 

But they fail not, the kinglier breed, 
Who starry diadems attain ; 
To dungeon, axe, and stake succeed 
Heirs of the old heroic strain. 

The zeal of Nature never cools, 
Nor is she thwarted of her ends ; 
When gapped and dulled her cheaper 

tools, 
Then she a saint and prophet spends. 

Land of the Magyars ! though it be 
The tyrant may relink his chain, 
Already thine the victory, 
As the just Future measures gain. 

Thou hast succeeded, thou hast won 
The deathly travail's amplest worth ; 
A nation's duty thou hast done, 
Giving a hero to our earth. 



And he, let come what will of woe, 
Has saved the land he strove to save ; 
No. Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, 
Can quench the voice shall haunt his 
grave. 

" I Kossuth am : O Future, thou 
That clear'st the just and blott'st the 

vile, 
O'er this small dust in reverence bow, 
Remembering what I was erewhile. 

" I was the chosen trump wherethrough 
Our God sent forth awakening breath ; 
Came chains ? Came death ? The strain 

He blew 
Sounds on, outliving chains and death." 



TO LAMARTINE. 



I did not praise thee when the crowd, 
'Witched with the moment's in- 
spiration, 
Vexed thy still ether with hosannas 
loud, 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



And stamped theirdustyadoration ; 
I but looked upward with the rest, 
And, when they shouted Greatest, 
whispered Best. 

They raised thee not, but rose to thee, 
Their fickle wreaths about thee 
flinging; 
Soon some marble Phoebus the high sea 
Might leave his worthless seaweed 
clinging, 
But pious hands, with reverent care, 
Make the pure limbs once more sub- 
limely bare. 

Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again, 
Thou art secure from panegyric, — 
Thou whogav'st politics an epic strain, 
And actedst Freedom's noblest 
lyric ; 
This side the Blessed Isles, no tree 
Grows green enough to make a wreath 
for thee. 

Nor can blame cling to thee ; the snow 
From swinish footprints takes no 
staining, 
But, leaving the gross soils of earth 
below, 
Its spirit mounts, the skies regain- 
ing, 
And unresenting falls again, 
To beautify the world with dews and 
rain. 

The highest duty to mere man vouch- 
safed 
Was laid on thee, — out of wild 
chaos, 
When the roused popular ocean foamed 
and chafed, 
And vulture War from his Imaus 
Snuffed blood, to summon homely 
Peace, 
And show that only order is release. 

To carve thy fullest thought, what 
though 
Time was not granted? Aye in 
history, 
Like that Dawn's face which baffled 
Angelo 
Left shapeless, grander for its 
mystery, 
Thy great Design shall stand, and day 
Flood its blind front from Orients far 
away. 



Who says thy day is o'er ? Control, 

My heart, that bitter first emotion ; 
While men shall reverence the steadfast 
soul, 
The heart in silent self-devotion 
Breaking, the mild, heroic mien, 
Thou 'It need no prop of marble, La- 
martine. 

If France reject thee, 't is not thine, 

But her own, exile that she utters ; 
Ideal France, the deathless, the divine, 
Will be where thy white pennon 
flutters, 
As once the nobler Athens went 
With Aristides into banishment. 

No fitting metewand hath To-day 

For measuring spirits of thy 
stature, — 
Only the Future can reach up to lay 
The laurel on that lofty nature, — 
Bard, who with some diviner art 
Has touched the bard's true lyre, * 
nation's heart. 

Swept by thy hand, the gladdened 
chords, 
Crashed now in discords fierce by 
others, 
Gave forth one note beyond all skill of 
words, 
And chimed together, We ai • 
brothers. 
O poem unsurpassed ! it ran 
All round the world, unlocking man t . 
man. 

France is too poor to pay alone 

The service of that ample spirit ; 

Paltry seem lowdictatorshipandthrone, 

If balanced with thy simple merit. 

They had to thee been rust and loss ; 

Thy aim was higher, — thou hast 

climbed a Cross. 



TO JOHN G. PALFREY. 

There are who triumph in a losing 
cause, 
Who can put on defeat, as 'twere a 
wreath 



TO JOHN G. PALFREY. 



103 



Un withering in the adverse popular 
breath, 
Safe from the blasting demagogue's 

applause ; 
'T is they who stand for Freedom and 
God's laws. 

And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell 

stood, 
Loyal to Truth dethroned, nor could be 
wooed 
To trust the playful tiger's velvet 
paws: 
And if the second Charles brought in 
decay 
Of ancient virtue, if it well might wring 
Souls that had broadened 'neath a 
nobler day, 
To see a lose), marketable king 
Fearfully watering with his realm's best 
blood 
Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst 
had cracked and flamed, 
Scaring, through all their depths of 
courtier mud, 
Europe's crowned bloodsuckers, — 
how more ashamed 
Ought we to be, who see Corruption's 
flood 
Still rise o'er last year's mark, to mine 

away 
Our brazen idols' feet of treacherous 
clay ! 

O utter degradation ! Freedom turned 
Slavery's vile bawd, to cozen and 

betray 
To the old lecher's clutch a maiden 
prey, 
If so a loathsome pander's fee be earned! 
And we are silent, — we who daily 
tread 
A soil sublime, at least, with heroes' 
graves ! — 
Beckon no more, shades of the noble 
dead ! 
Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of 
winds and waves ! 
Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard, 
hid 
Ages ago, wrapt stiffly, fold on fold, 
With cerements close, to wither in the 
cold 
Forever hushed, and sunless pyramid! 



Beauty and Truth, and all that these 

contain, 
Drop not like ripened fruit about our 

feet; 
We climb to them through years of 

sweat and pain ; 
Without long struggle, none did e er 

attain 
The downward look from Quiet's bliss- 
ful seat : 
Though present loss maybe the hero's 

part, 
Yet none can rob him of the victor 

heart 
Whereby the broad-realmed future is 

subdued, 
And Wrong, which now insults from 

triumph's car, 
Sending her vulture hope to raven far. 
Is made unwilling tributary of Good. 

O Mother State, how quenched thy 
Sinai fires ! 
Is there none left of thy stanch May- 
flower breed ? 
No spark among the ashes of thy sires, 
Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling 
seed ? 
Are these thy great men, these that 
cringe and creep, 
And writhe through slimy ways to 
place and power ? — 
How long, O Lord, before thy wrath 
shall reap 
Our frail-stemmed summer prosper- 
ings in their flower? 
O for one hour of that undaunted stock 
That went with Vane and Sydney to 
the block I 

O for a whiff of Naseby, that would 
sweep, 
With its stern Puritan besom, all this 

chaff 
From the Lord's threshing-floor ! Yet 
more than half 
The victory is attained, when one or 
two, 
Through the fool's laughter and the 

traitor's scorn, 
Beside thy sepulchre can abide the 
morn, 
Crucified Truth, when thou shalt rise 
anew. 



io4 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



TO W. L. GARRISON. 

" Some time afterward, it was reported to 
me by the city officers that they had ferreted 
out the paper and its editor ; that his office 
was an obscure hole, his only visible auxiliary 
a negro boy, and his supporters a few very 
insignificant persons of all colors." — Letter 
oj H. G. Otis. 

In a small chamber, friendless and un- 
seen, 
Toiled o'er his types one poor, un- 
learned young man ; 
The place was dark, unfurnitured, and 
mean ; — 
Yet there the freedom of a race began. 

Help came but slowly ; surely no man 
yet 
Put lever to the heavy world with 
less : 
What need of help? He knew how 
types were set, 
He had a dauntless spirit, and a press. 

Such earnest natures are the fiery pith, 
The compact nucleus, round which 
systems grow ! 
Mass after mass becomes inspired there- 
with, 
And whirls impregnate with the cen- 
tral glow. 

O Truth ! O Freedom ! how are ye still 
born 
In the rude stable, in the manger 
nursed ! 
What humble hands unbar those gates 
• of morn 
Through which the splendors of the 
New Day burst ! 

What ! shall one monk, scarce known 
beyond his cell, 
Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and 
scorn her frown? 
Brave Luther answered Yes ; that 
thunder's swell 
Rocked Europe, and discharmed the 
triple crown. 

Whatever can be known of earth we 
know, 
Sneered Europe's wise men, in their 
snail-shells curled ; 



No 1 said one man in Genoa, and that 
No 
Out of the dark created this New 
World. 

Who is it will not dare himself to trust ? 
Who is it hath not strength to stand 
alone? 
Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward 

MUST? 

He and his works, like sand, from 
earth are blown. 

Men of a thousand shifts and wiles, 
look here ! 
See one straightforward conscience 
put in pawn 
To win a world ; see the obedient 
sphere 
By bra very'ssimplegravitation drawn! 

Shall we not heed the lesson taught of 
old, 
And by the Present's lips repeated 
still, 
In our own single manhood to be bold, 
Fortressed in conscience and impreg- 
nable will ? 

We stride the river daily at its spring, 
Nor, in our childish thoughtlessness, 
foresee 
What myriad vassal streams shall trib- 
ute bring, 
How like an equal it shall greet the 
sea. 

O small beginnings, ye are great and 
strong, 
Based on a faithful heart and weari- 
less brain ! 
Ye build the future fair, ye conquer 
wrong, 
Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in 
vain. 



ON THE DEATH OF C. T. 
TORRE Y. 

Woe worth the hour when it is crime 
To plead the poor dumb bondman's 
cause, 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. 



105 



When all that makes the heart sublime, 
The glorious throbs that conquer time, 
Are traitors to our cruel laws ! 

He strove among God's suffering poor 
One gleam of brotherhood to send ; 
The dungeon oped its hungry door 
To give the truth one martyr more, 
Then shut, — and here behold the 
end ! 

O Mother State ! when this was done, 
No pitying throe thy bosom gave ; 

Silent thou saw'st the death-shroud 
spun, 

And now thou givest to thy son 
The stranger's charity, — a grave. 

Must it be thus forever ? No ! 

The hand of God sows not in vain ; 
Long sleeps the darkling seed below, 
The seasons come, and change, and go, 

And all the fields are deep with grain. 

Although our brother lie asleep, 
Man's heart still struggles, still as- 
pires ; 
His grave shall quiver yet, while deep 
Through the brave Bay State's pulses 
leap 
Her ancient energies and fires. 

When hours like this the senses' gush 
Have stilled, and left the spirit room, 
It hears amid the eternal hush 
The swooping pinions' dreadful rush, 
That bring the vengeance and the 
doom ; — 

Not man's brute vengeance, such as 
rends 

What rivets man to man apart, — 
God doth not so bring round his ends, 
But waits the ripened time, and sends 

His mercy to the oppressor's heart. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
DR. CHANNING. 

I do not come to weep above thy pall, 
And mourn the dying-out of noble 
powers ; 



The poet's clearer eye should see, in all 
Earth's seeming woe, the seed of 
Heaven's flowers. 

Truth needs no champions : in the in- 
finite deep 
Of everlasting Soul her strength 
abides, 
From Nature's heart her mighty pulses 
leap, 
Through Nature's veins her strength, 
undying, tides. 

Peace is more strong than war, and 
gentleness, 
Where force were vain, makes con- 
quest o'er the wave ; 
And love lives on and hath a power to 
bless, 
When they who loved are hidden in 
the grave. 

The sculptured marble brags of death- 
strewn fields, 
And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood ; 
But Alexander now to Plato yields, 
Clark son will stand where Wellington 
hath stood. 

I watch the circle of the eternal years, 

And read forever in the storied page 

One lengthened roll of blood, and 

wrong, and tears, — 

One onward step of Truth from age 

to age. 

The poor are crushed ; the tyrants link 
their chain ; 
The poet sings through narrow dun- 
geon-grates ; 
Man's hope lies quenched; — and, lo ! 
with steadfast gain 
Freedom doth forge her mail of ad- 
verse fates. 

Men slay the prophets ; fagot, rack, and 
cross 
Make up the groaning record of the 
past ; 
But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, 
And sovereign Beauty wins the soul 
at last. 

No power can die that ever wrought for 
Truth ; 
Thereby a law of Nature it became, 



io6 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



And lives unwithered in its sinewy 
youth, 
When he who called it forth is but a 
name. 

Therefore I cannot think thee wholly 
gone ; 
The better part of thee is with us 
still ; 
Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath 
thrown, 
And only freer wrestles with the 111. 

Thou livest in the life of all good things ; 
What words thou spak'st for Free- 
dom shall not die ; 
Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love 
hath wings 
To soar where hence thy Hope could 
hardly fly. 

And often, from that other world, on 
this 
Some gleams from great souls gone 
before may shine, 
To shed on struggling hearts a clearer 
bliss, 
And clothe the Right with lustre more 
divine. 

Thou art not idle : in thy higher sphere 
Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, 

And strength, to perfect what it dreamed 
of here 
Is all the crown and glory that it asks. 

For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, 
there is room 
For love and pity, and for helpful 
deeds , 
Else were our summons thither but a 
doom 
To life more vain than this in clayey 
weeds. 

From off the starry mountain-peak of 
song, 
Thy spirit shows me, in the coming 
time, 
An earth unwithered by the foot of 
wrong, 
A race revering its own soul sublime. 

What wars, what martyrdoms, what 
crimes, may come, 
Thou knowest not, nor I ; but God 
will lead 



The prodigal soul from want and sorrow 
home, 
And Eden ope her gates to Adam'* 
seed. 

Farewell ! good man, good angel now ! 
this hand 
Soon, like thine own, shall lose its 
cunning too ; 
Soon shall this soul, like thine, be- 
wildered stand, 
Then leap to thread the free, un- 
fathomed blue : 

When that day comes, O, may this hand 
grow cold, 
Busy, like thine, for Freedom and 
the Right ; 
O may this soul, like thine, be ever 
bold 
To face dark Slavery's encroaching 
blight ! 

This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; 
Let worthier hands than these thy 
wreath intwine ; 
Upon thy hearse I shed no useless 
tear, — 
For us weep rather thou in calm di- 
vine ! 
1842. 



TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. 

Another star 'neath Time's horizon 
dropped, 
To gleam o'er unknown lands and 
seas ; 
Another heart that beat for freedom 
stopped, — 
What mournful words are these ! 

O Love Divine, that claspest our tired 
earth, 
And lullest it upon thy heart, 
Thou knowest how much a gentle soul 
is worth 
To teach men what thou art ! 

His was a spirit that to all thy poor 
Was kind as slumber after pain : 

Why ope so soon thy heaven-deep 
Quiet's door 
And call him home again ? 



SONNETS. 



107 



Freedom needs all her poets : it is 
they 

Who give her aspirations wings, 
And to the wiser law of music sway 

Her wild imaginings. 

Yet thou hast called him, nor art thou 
unkind, 
O Love Divine, for 'tis thy will 
That gracious natures leave their love 
behind 
To work for Freedom still. 

Let laurelled marbles weigh on other 
tombs, 
Let anthems peal for other dead, 



Rustling the bannered depth of minster- 
glooms 
With their exulting spread. 

His epitaph shall mock the short-lived 
stone, 
No lichen shall its lines efface, 
He needs these few and simple lines 
alone 
To mark his resting-place : — 

" Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee 
His claim to memory be obscure, 

If thou wouldst learn how truly great 
was he, 
Go, ask it of the poor." 



SONNETS. 



TO A. C. L. 

Through suffering and sorrow thou 

hast passed 
To show us what a woman true may be : 
They have not taken sympathy from 

thee, 
Nor made thee any other than thou 

wast, 
Save as some tree, which, in a sudden 

blast, 
Sheddeth those blossoms, that are 

weakly grown, 
Upon the air, but keepeth every one 
Whose strength gives warrant of good 

fruit at last : 
So thou hast shed some blooms of 

gayety, 
But never one of steadfast cheerful- 
ness ; 
Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity 
Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, 
But rather cleared thine inner eyes to 

see 
How many simple ways there are to 

bless. 
1840. 



II. 



What were I, Love, if I were stripped 
of thee, 

If thine eyes shut me out whereby I 
live, 

Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost 
give 

Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mys- 
tery, 

Wherein Truth mainly lies for those 
who see 

Beyond the earthly and the fugitive, 

Who in the grandeur of the soul be- 
lieve, 

And only in the Infinite are free? 

Without thee I were naked, bleak, and 
bare 

As yon dead cedar on the sea-cliff's 
brow ; 

And Nature's teachings, which come 
to me now, 

Common and beautiful as light and 
air, 

Would be as fruitless as a stream which 
still 

Slips through the wheel of some old 
ruined mill. 
1841. 



io8 



SONNETS. 



III. 

I would not have this perfect love of 

ours 
Grow from a single root, a single stem, 
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flow- 
ers 
That idly hide life's iron diadem : 
It should grow alway like that eastern 

tree 
Whose limbs take root and spread forth 

constantly ; 
That love for one, from which there 

doth not spring 
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. 
Not in another world, as poets prate, 
Dwell we apart above the tide of things, 
High floating o'er earth's clouds on 

faery wings ; 
But our pure love doth ever elevate 
Into a holy bond of brotherhood 
All earthly things, making them pure 

and good. 
1840. 



IV. 

" For this true nobleness I seek in vain, 

In woman and in man I find it not ; 

I almost weary of my earthly lot, 

My life-springs are dried up with burn- 
ing pain." 

Thou find'st it not ? I pray thee look 
again, 

Look inivard through the depths of 
thine own soul. 

How is it with thee ? Art thou sound 
and whole ? 

Doth narrow search show thee no earth- 
ly stain ? 

Be noble ! and the nobleness thatlies 

In other men, sleeping, but never 
dead, 

Will rise in majesty to meet thine 
own : 

Then wilt thou see it gleam in many 
eyes, 

Then will pure light around thy path be 
shed, 

And thou wilt nevermore be sad and 
lone 
1840 



V. 

TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. 

Great soul, thou sittest with me in my 
room, 

Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, 

On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, 
lies 

The twilight warmth of ruddy ember- 
gloom : 

Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring 
sudden bloom 

Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, 

Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, 

Neglect and scorn, which seem a cer- 
tain doom : 

Yes ! the few words which, like great 
thunder-drops, 

Thy large heart down to earth shook 
doubtfully, 

Thrilled by the inward lightning of its 
might, 

Serene and pure, like gushing joy of 
light, 

Shall track the eternal chords of Des- 
tiny, 

After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops. 
1841. 



VI. 



Great Truths are portions of the soul 

of man ; 
Great souls are portions of Eternity ; 
Each drop of blood that e'er through 

true heart ran 
With lofty message, ran for thee and 

me ; 
For God's law, since the starry song 

began, 
Hath been, and still forevermore must 

be, 
That every deed which shall outlast 

Time's span 
Must goad the soul to be erect and free ; 
Slave is no word of deathless lineage 

sprung, — 
Too many noble souls have thought and 

died, 
Too many mighty poets lived and sung, 
And our good Saxon, from lips purified 



SONNETS. 



xog 



With martyr-fire, throughout the world 
hath rung 

Too long to have God's holy cause de- 
nied. 
1841. 



VII. 



I ask not for those thoughts, that sud- 
den leap 

From being's sea, like the isle-seeming 
Kraken, 

With whose great rise the ocean all is 
shaken 

And a heart-tremble quivers through 
the deep ; 

Give me that growth which some per- 
chance deem sleep, 

Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems 
uprise, 

Which, by the toil of gathering energies, 

Their upward way into clear sunshine 
keep, 

Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences, 

Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of 
green 

Into a pleasant island in the seas, 

Where, 'mid tall palms, the cane-roofed 
home is seen, 

And wearied men shall sit at sunset's 
hour, 

Hearing the leaves and loving God's 
dear power. 
1841. 



VIII. 

TO M. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

Maiden, when such a soul as thine is 
born, 

The morning-stars their ancient music 
make, 

And, joyful, onceagain theirsong awake, 

Long silent now with melancholy scorn ; 

And thou, not mindless of so blest a 
morn, 

By no least deed its harmony shalt 
break, 

But shalt to that high chime thy foot- 
steps take, 



Through life's most darksome passes 

unforlorn ; 
Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt 

not fall, 
Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and 

free, 
And in thine every motion musical 
As summer air, majestic as the sea, 
A mystery to those who creep and crawl 
Through Time, and part it from Eter- 
nity. 



IX. 

My Love, I have no fear that thou 

shouldst die ; 
Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, 
Whose numbering-clock is still thy 

gentle kiss, 
While Time and Peace with hands en- 
locked fly, — 
Yet care I not where in Eternity 
We live and love, welf knowing that 

there is 
No backward step for those who feel the 

bliss 
Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings 

high : 
Love hath so purified my being's core, 
Meseems I scarcely should be startled, 

even, 
To find, some morn, that thou hadst 

gone before ; 
Since, with thy love, this knowledge 

too was given, 
Which each calm day doth strengthen 

more and more, 
That they who love are but one step 

from Heaven. 



1841. 



X. 



I cannot think that thou shouldst pass 

away, 
Whose life to mine is an eternal law, 
A piece of nature that can have no flaw, 
A new and certain sunrise every day ; 
But, if thou art to be another ray 
About the Sun of Life, and art to live 



SONNETS. 



Free from all of thee that was fugitive, 
The debt of Love I will more fully pay, 
Not downcast with the thought of thee 

so high, 
But rather raised to be a nobler man, 
And more divine in my humanity, 
As knowing that the waiting eyes which 

scan 
My life are lighted by a purer being, 
And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, 

with it agreeing. 
1841. 



XL 



There never yet was flower fair in vain, 
Let classic poets rhyme it as they will ; 
The seasons toil that it may blow again, 
And summer's heart doth feel its every 

ill; 
Nor is a true soul ever born for naught ; 
Wherever any such hath lived and died, 
There hath been something for true 

freedom wrought, 
Some bulwark levelled on the evil side: 
Toil on, then, Greatness ! thou art in 

the right, 
However narrow souls may call thee 

wrong ; 
Be as thou wouldst be in thine own 

clear sight, 
And so thou wilt in all the world's ere- 
long ; 
For worldlings cannot, struggle as they 

may, 
From man's great soul onegreat thought 

hide away. 
1841. 



XII. 

SUB PONDERE CRESCIT. 

The hope of Truth grows stronger, day 

by day ; 
I hear the soul of Man around me wak- 

Like a great sea, its frozen fetters 

breaking, 
And flinging up to heaven its sunlit 

spray, 



Tossing huge continents in scornful play, 
And crushing them, with din of grind- 
ing thunder, 
That makes old emptinesses stare in 

wonder ; 
The memory of a glory passed away 
Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell, 
Resounds the bygone freedom of the sea, 
And, every hour new signs of promise 

tell 
That the great soul shall once again be 

free, 
For high, and yet more high, the mur- 
murs swell 
Of inward strife for truth and liberty. 
1841. 



XIII. 



Beloved, in the noisy city here, 
The thought of thee can make all tur- 
moil cease ; 
Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear 
Its still, soft arms, and circles it with 

peace ; 
There is no room for any doubt or fear 
In souls so overfilled with love's in- 
crease, 
There is no memory of the bygone year 
But growth in heart's and spirit's per- 
fect ease : 
How hath our love, half nebulousat first, 
Rounded itself into a full-orbed sun ! 
How have our lives and wills (as haply 

erst 
They were, ere this forgetfulness begun) 
Through all their earthly distantness 

outburst, 
And melted, like two rays of light, in 
one ! 
1842. 



XIV. 



ON READING WORDSWORTH'S SON- 
NETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL 
PUNISHMENT. 

As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, 
With the majestic beating of his heart, 
The mighty tides, whereof its rightful 
part 



SONNETS. 



Each sea-wide bay and little weed re- 

ceiveth, — 
So, through his soul who earnestly be- 

lieveth, 
Life from the universal Heart doth flow, 
Whereby some conquest of the eternal 

Woe, 
By instinct of God's nature, he achiev- 
ed! : 
A fuller pulse of this all-powerful beauty 
Into the poet's gulf-like heart doth tide, 
And he more keenly feels the glorious 

duty 
Of serving Truth, despised and cruci- 
fied,— 
Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest 
And feel God flow forever through his 
breast. 
1842. 



XV. 



THE SAME CONTINUED. 

Once hardly in a cycle blossometh 

A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of 

song, 
A spirit foreordained to cope with 

wrong, 
Whose divine thoughts are natural as 

breatfy, 
Who the old Darkness thicklyscattereth 
With starry words, that shoot prevail- 
ing light 
Into the deeps, and wither, with the 

blight 
Of serene Truth, the coward heart of 

Death: 
Woe, if such spirit thwart its errand high, 
And mock with lies the longing soul of 

man I 
Yet one age longer must true Culture lie, 
Soothing her bitter fetters as she can, 
Until new messages of love outstart 
At the next beating of the infinite Heart. 



XVI. 

THE SAME CONTINUED. 

The love of all things springs from 

love of one ; 
Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows, 



And over it with fuller glory flows 
The sky-like spirit of God ; a hope begun 
In doubt and darkness 'neath a fairer 

sun 
Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth ; 
And to the law of meekness, faith, and 

ruth, 
By inward sympathy, shall all be won : 
This thou shouldst know, who, from 

the painted feature 
Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy breth- 
ren turn 
Unto the love of ever-youthful Nature, 
And of a beauty fadeless and eterne ; 
And always 't is the saddest sight to see 
An old man faithless in Humanity. 



XVII. 



THE SAME CONTINUED. 

A poet cannot strive for despotism ; 
His harp falls shattered; for it still 

must be 
The instinct of great spirits to be free, 
And the sworn foes of cunning barba- 
rism : 
He, who has deepest searched the wide 

abysm 
Of that life-giving Soul which men call 

fate, 
Knows that to put more faith in lies 

and hate 
Than truth and love is the true atheism : 
Upward the soul forever turns her eyes ; 
The next hour always shames the hour 

before ; 
One beauty, at its highest, prophesies 
That by whose side it shall seem mean 

and poor 
No Godlike thing knows aught of less 

and less, 
B ut widens to the boundless Perfectness. 



XVIII. 

THE SAME CONTINUED. 

Therefore think not the Past is wise 

alone, 
For Yesterday knows nothing «f the 

Best, 



SONNETS. 



And thou shalt love it only as the nest 
Whence glory-winged things to Heaven 

have flown : 
To the great Soul alone are all things 

known ; 
Present and future are to her as past, 
While she in glorious madness doth* 

forecast 
That perfect bud, which seems a flower 

full-blown 
To each new Prophet, and yet always 

opes 
Fuller and fuller with each day and hour, 
Heartening the soul with odor of fresh 

hopes, 
And longings high, and gushings of 

wide power, 
Yet never is or shall be fully blown 
Save in the forethought of the Eternal 

One. 



XIX. 



THE SAME CONTINUED. 

Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, 
With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should 

look 
Into the Endless Promise, nor should 

brook 
One prying doubt to shake his faith 

sublime ; 
To him the earth is ever in her prime 
And dewiness of morning ; he can see 
Good lying hid, from all eternity, 
Within the teeming womb of sin and 

crime ; 
His soul should not be cramped by any 

bar, 
His nobleness should be so Godlike 

high, 
That his least deed is perfect as a star, 
His common look majestic as the sky, 
And all o'erflooded with a light from far, 
Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. 



XX. 

TO M. O. S. 

Mary, since first I knew thee, to this 

hour, 
My love hath deepened, with my wiser 

sense 



Of what in Woman is to reverence ; 

Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest- 
flower, 

Still opens more to me its beauteous 
dower ; — 

But let praise hush, — Love asks no 
evidence 

To prove itself well-placed ; we know 
not whence 

It gleans the straws that thatch its hum- 
ble bower : 

We can but say we found it in the 
heart, 

Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe 
of blame, 

Sower of flowers in the dusty mart, 

Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame, — 

This is enough, and we have done our 
part 

If we but keep it spotless as it came. 
1842. 



XXI. 



Our love is not a fading, earthly 

flower : 
Its winged seed dropped down from 

Paradise, 
And, nursed by day and night, by sun 

and shower, t 

Doth momently to fresher beauty 

rise : 
To us the leafless autumn is not 

bare, 
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty 

green. 
Our summer hearts make summer's 

fulness, where 
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be 

seen : 
For nature's life in love's deep life doth 

lie, 
Love, — who^e forgetfulness is beauty's 

death, 
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou 

and I 
Into the infinite freedom openeth, 
And makes the bodv's dark and narrow 

grate 
The wind-flung leaves of Heaven's 

palace-gate. 
1842. 



SONNETS. 



"3 



XXII. 



. IN ABSENCE. 



These rugged, wintry days I scarce 

could bear, 
Did I not know, that, in the early spring, 
When wild March winds upon their 

errands sing, 
Thou wouldst return, bursting on this 

still air, 
Like those same winds, when, startled 

from their lair, 
They hunt up violets, and free swift 

brooks, 
From icy cares, even as thy clear looks 
Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and 

break all care : 
When drops with welcome rain the 

April day, 
My flowers shall find their April in 

thine eyes, 
Save there the rain in dreamy clouds 

doth stay, 
As loath to fall out of those happy skies ; 
Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to 

May, 
That comes with steady sun when April 

dies. 

*843> 



XXIII. 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

He stood upon the world's broad 

threshold ; wide 
The din of battle and of slaughter rose ; 
He saw God stand upon the weaker 

side, 
That sank in seeming loss before its 

foes ; 
Many there were who made great haste 

and sold 
Unto the cunning enemy their swords, 
He scorned their gifts of fame, and 

power, and gold, 
And, underneath their soft and flowery 

words, 
Heard the cold serpent hiss ; therefore 

» he went 
And humbly joined him to the weaker 

part, 



Fanatic named, and fool, yet well con- 
tent 

So he could be the nearer to God's 
heart, 

And feel its solemn pulses sending 
blood 

Through all the wide-spread veins of 
endless good. 



XXIV. 

THE STREET. 

They pass me by like shadows, crowds 

on crowds, 
Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and 

fro, 
Hugging their bodies round them like 

thin shrouds 
Wherein their souls were buried long 

ago: 
They trampled on their youth, and 

faith, and love, 
They cast their hope of human-kind 

away, 
With Heaven's clear messages they 

madly strove, 
And conquered, — and their spirits 

turned to clay : 
Lo ! how they wander round the world, 

their grave, 
Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed, 
Gibbering at living men, and idly rave, 
" We, only, truly live, but ye are dead." 
Alas 1 poor fools, the anointed eye 

may trace 
A dead soul's epitaph in every face ! 



XXV. 



I grieve not that ripe Knowledge 
takes away 

The charm that Nature to my child- 
hood wore, 

For, with that insight, cometh, day by 
day, 

A greater bliss than wonder was before ; 

The real doth not clip the poet's 
wings, — 

To win the secret of a weed's plain heart 



ii4 



SONNETS. 



Reveals some clew to spiritual things, 
And stumbling guess becomes firm- 
footed art : 
Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's 

eyes, 
Their beauty thrills him by an inward 

sense ; 
He knows that outward seemings are 

but lies, 
Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, 

whence 
The soul that looks within for truth 

may guess 
The presence of some wondrous heav- 

enliness. 



XXVI. 

TO J. R. GIDDINGS. 

Giddings, far rougher names than 

thine have grown 
Smoother than honey on the lips of men ; 
And thou shalt aye be honorably 

known, 
As one who bravely used his tongue 

and pen, 
As best befits a freeman, — even for 

those, 
To whom our Law's unblushing front 

denies 
A right to plead against the life-long 

woes 
Which are the Negro's glimpse of 

Freedom's skies : 
Fear nothing, and hope all things, as 

the Right 
Alone may do securely ; every hour 
The thrones of Ignorance and ancient 

Night 
Lose somewhat of their long usurped 

power, 
And Freedom's lightest word can make 

them shiver 
With a base dread that clings to them 

forever. 



XXVII. 

I thought our love at full, but I did err; 
Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyea ; 
I could not see 



That sorrow in our happy world must be 

Love's deepest spokesman and inter- 
preter ? 

But, as a mother feels her child first 
stir 

Under her heart, so felt I instantly 

Deep in my soul another bond to thee 

Thrill with that life we saw depart from 
her ; 

O mother of our angel child ! twice 
dear ! 

Death knits as well as parts, and still, 
I wis, 

Her tender radiance shall infold us 
here, 

Even as the light, borne up by inward 
bliss, 

Threads the void glooms of space with- 
out a fear, 

To print on farthest stars her pitying 
kiss. 



L'ENVOI. 

Whether my heart hath wiser grown 

or not, 
In these three years, since I to thee 

inscribed, 
Mine own betrothed, the firstlings of 

my muse, — 
Poor windfalls of unripe experience, 
Young buds plucked hastily by child- 
ish hands 
Not patient to await more full-blown 

flowers, — 
At least it hath seen more of life and 

men, 
And pondered more, and grown a shade 

more sad ; 
Yet with no loss of hope or settled 

trust 
In the benignness of that Providence, 
Which shapes from out our elements 

awry 
The grace and order that we wonder at, 
The mystic harmony of right and 

wrong, 
Both working out His wisdom and our 

good : 
A trust, Beloved, chiefly learned of thee, 
Who hast that gift of papent tenderness, 
The instinctive wisdom of a woman'? 

heart. 



V ENVOI. 



"S 



They tell us that our land was made 

for song, 
With its huge rivers and sky-piercing 

peaks, 
Its sealike lakes and mighty cataracts, 
Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies 

wide, 
And mounds that tell of wondrous 

tribes extinct. 
But Poesy springs not from rocks and 

woods ; 
Her womb and cradle are the human 

heart, 
And she can find a nobler theme for 

song 
In the most loathsome man that blasts 

the sight 
Than in the broad expanse of sea and 

shore 
Between the frozen deserts of the poles. 
All nations have their message from on 

high, 
Each the messiah of some central 

thought, 
For the fulfilment and delight of Man : 
One has to teach that labor is divine ; 
Another Freedom ; and another Mind ; 
And all, that God is open-eyed and 

just, 
The happy centre and calm heart of all. 

Are, then, our woods, our mountains, 

and our streams, 
Needful to teach our poets how to 

sing ? 
O maiden rare, far other thoughts were 

ours, 
When we have sat by ocean's foaming 

marge, 
And watched the waves leap roaring on 

the rocks, 
Than young Leander and his Hero had, 
Gazing from Sestos to the other shore. 
The moon looks down and ocean wor- 
ships her, 
Stars rise and set, and seasons come 

and go 
Even as they did in Homer's elder 

time, 
But we behold them not with Grecian 

eyes : 
Then they were types of beauty and of 

strength, 
But now of freedom, unconfined and 

pure, 



Subject alone to Order's higher law. 

What cares the Russian serf or South- 
ern slave 

Though we should speak as man spake 
never yet 

Of gleaming Hudson's broad magnifi- 
cence, 

Or green Niagara's never-ending roar ? 

Our country hath a gospel of her own 

To preach and practise before all the 
world, — 

The freedom and divinity of man, 

The glorious claims of human brother- 
hood, — 

Which to pay nobly, as a freeman 
should, 

Gains the sole wealth that will not fly 
away, — 

And the soul's fealty to none but God. 

These are realities, which make the 
shows 

Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so 
grand, 

Seem small, and worthless, and con- 
temptible. 

These are the mountain-summits for 
our bards, 

Which stretch far upward into heaven 
itself, 

And give such wide-spread and exult- 
ing view 

Of hope, and faith, and onward des- 
tiny, 

That shrunk Parnassus to a molehill 
dwindles. 

Our new Atlantis, like a morning-star, 

Silvers the murk face of slow-yielding 
Night, 

The herald of a fuller truth than yet 

Hath gleamed upon the upraised face 
of Man 

Since the earth glittered in her stain- 
less prime, — 

Of a more glorious sunrise than of old 

Drew wondrous melodies from Mem- 
non huge. 

Yea, draws them still, though now he 
sits waist-deep 

In the ingulfing flood of whirling sand, 

And looks across the wastes of endless 
gray, 

Sole wreck, where once his hundred- 
gated Thebes 

Pained with her mighty hum the calm, 
blue heaven : 



xi6 



VENVOL 



Shall the dull stone pay grateful ori- 
sons, 

And we till noonday bar the splendor 
out, 

Lest it reproach and chide our sluggard 
hearts, 

Warm-nestled in the down of Preju- 
dice, 

And be content, though clad with an- 
gel-wings, 

Close-clipped, to hop about from perch 
to perch, 

In paltry cages of dead men's dead 
thoughts ? 

O, rather, like the skylark, soar and 
sing, 

And let our gushing songs befit the 
dawn 

And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew 

Brimming the chalice of each full-blown 
hope, 

Whose blithe front turns to greet the 
growing day ! 

Never had poets such high call before, 

Never can poets hope for higher one, 

And, if they be but faithful to their trust, 

Earth will remember them with love 
and joy, 

And O, far better, God will not forget. 

For he who settles Freedom's prin- 
ciples 

Writes the death-warrant of all ty- 
ranny ; 

Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood 
to the heart, 

And his mere word makes despots trem- 
ble more 

Than ever Brutus with his dagger 
could. 

Wait for no hints from waterfalls or 
woods, 

Nor dream that tales of red men, brute 
and fierce, 

Repay the finding of this Western 
World, 

Or needed half the globe to give them 
birth: 

Spirit supreme of Freedom ! not for 
this 

Did great Columbustame his eagle soul 

To jostle with the daws that perch in 
courts ; 

Not for this, friendless, on an unknown 
sea, 



Coping with mad waves and more mu- 
tinous spirits, 
Battled he with the dreadful ache at 

heart 
Which tempts, with devilish subtleties 

of doubt, 
The hermit of that loneliest solitude, 
The silent desert of a great New 

Thought ; 
Though loud Niagara were to-day 

struck dumb, 
Yet would this cataract of boiling life 
Rush plunging on and on to endless 

deeps, 
And utter thunder till the world shall 

cease, — 
A thunder worthy of the poet's song, 
And which alone can fill it with true 

life. 
The high evangel to our country granted 
Could make apostles, yea, with tongues 

of fire, 
Of hearts half-darkened back again to 

clay ! 
'T is the soul only that is national, 
And he who pays true loyalty to that 
Alone can claim the wreath of patriot- 
ism. 

Beloved ! if I wander far and oft 
From that which I believe, and feel, 

and know, 
Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrow- 
ing heart, 
But with a strengthened hope of better 

things ; 
Knowing that I, though often blind 

and false 
To those 1 love, and O, more false than 

all 
Unto myself, have been most true to 

thee, 
And that whoso in one thing hath been 

true 
Can be as true in all. Therefore thy 

hope 
May yet not prove unfruitful, and thy 

love 
Meet, day by day, with less unworthy 

thanks, 
Whether, as now, we journey hand in 

hand, 
Or, parted in the body, yet are one 
In spirit and the love of holy things. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 



PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. 

Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they list, 
And builds a bridge from Dreamland 
for his lay : 
Then, as the touch -of his loved instru- 
ment 
Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws 
his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes 
sent 
Along the wavering vista of his dream. 



Not only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies ; 

With our faint hearts the mountain 
strives, 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite , 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth 
gives us ; 
The beggar is taxed for a corner to 
die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes and 
shrives us, 
We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of 
gold; 
For a cap and belis our lives we 
pay, 



Bubbles we buy with a whole souPs 
tasking : 
'T is heaven alone that is given away, 

'T is only God may be had for the ask- 
ing, 

No price is set on the lavish summer ; 

June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in 
tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
Whether we look, orwhether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 
An instinct within it that reaches and 
towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
The buttercup catches the sun in its 
chalice, 
And there 's never a leaf nor a blade 
too mean 
To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
Atiltlike a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his iliumined being o'errun 
With the deluge of summer it re- 
ceives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her 

wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flut- 
ters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to 

her nest, — 
In the nice earof Nature which song is 
the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 
And whatever of life hath ebbed away 



n8 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L. 



Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and 

bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop 

overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills 

it; 
No matter how barren the past may 

have been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves 

are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right 

well 
How the sap creeps up and the blos- 
soms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot 

help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is grow- 
ing 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 
That maize has sprouted, that streams 

are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house 

hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news 

back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's 

lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be 
blue, — 
'T is the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have 
fled.-' 
In the unscarred heaven they leave 
no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have 
shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion 
and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and 
smooth, 



Like burnt-out craters healed with- 
snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow? 



PART FIRST. 



" My golden spurs now bring to me, 

And bring to me my richest mail, 

For to-morrow I go over land and sea 

In search of the Holy Grail : 
Shall never a bed for me be spread, 
Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
Here on the rushes will I sleep, 
And perchance there may come a visioiv 

true 
Ere day create the world anew." 
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim„ 
Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
And into his soul the vision flew. 



The crows flapped over by twos an* 

threes, 
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to 
their knees, 
The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all tha 
year, 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on 

the trees : 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and 

gray ; 
'T was the proudest hall in the North 

Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be, 
Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
Summer besieged it on every side, 
But the churlish stone her assaults de- 
fied ; 
She could not scale the chilly wall, 
Though around it for leagues her pa- 
vilions tall 
Stretched left and right. 
Over the hills and out of sight ; 
Green and broad was every tent, 
And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L. 



119 



The drawbridge dropped with a surly 

clang, 
And through the dark arch a charger 

sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered 

all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot 

over its wall 
In his siege of three hundred sum- 
mers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing 

sheaf, 
Had cast them forth : so, young and 

strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his un- 

scarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 



It was morning on hill and stream and 
tree, 
And morning in the young knight's 
heart ; 
Only the castle moodily 
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 

And gloomed by itself apart ; 
The season brimmed all other things 

U P 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's 
cup. 

v. 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the 
darksome gate, 
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched 
by the same, 
Who begged with his hand and moaned 
as he sate ; 
And a loathing over Sir Launfal 
came ; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with 
a thrill, 
The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan 
shrink and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood stili 

Like a frozen waterfall ; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
Rasped harshly against his dainty na- 
ture, 



And seemed the one blot on the sum- 
mer morn, — 

So he tossed him a piece of gold in 
scorn. 

VI. 

The leper raised not the gold from the 

dust : 
" Better to me the poor man's crust, 
Better the blessing of the poor, 
Though I turn me empty from his door ; 
That is no true alms which the hand 

can hold ; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives a slender mite, 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 
That thread of the all-sustaining 

Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all 

unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his 

alms, 
The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
For a god goes with it and makes it 

store 
To the soul that was starving in dark- 
ness before. " 



PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. 

Down swept the chill wind from the 
mountain peak, 
From the snow five thousand sum- 
mers old ; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wan- 
derer's cheek ; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pastures 
bare ; 

The little brook heard it and built a 
roof 

'Neath which he could house him, win- 
ter-proof ; 

All night by the white stars' frosty 
gleams 

He groined his arches and matched his 
beams ; 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 

As the lashes of light that trim the 
stars : 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L. 



He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 

Down through a frost-leaved forest- 
crypt, 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed 
trees 

Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes H was simply smooth and 
clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine 
through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush- 
tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond 
drops, 

That crystalled the beams of moon and 
sun, 

And made a star of every one : 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 

'T was as if every image that mirrored 
lay 

In his depths serene through the sum- 
mer day, 

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 
Lest the happy model should be lost, 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
By the elfin builders of the frost. 

Within the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas glow red 

and jolly, 

And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and 

holly ; 

Through the deep gulf of the chimney 

wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and 
flap 
And belly and tug as a flag in the 
wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned 
sap, 
Hunted to death in its galleries 
blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
Now pausing, now scattering away 
as in fear, 



Go threading the soot-forest's tangled 
darks 
Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and 

sharp, 
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a 
harp, 
And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 
A Christmas carol of its own, 
Whose burden still, as he mighv 

guess, 
Was — " Shelterless, shelterless, shel- 
terless ! " 
The voice of the seneschal flared like a 

torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from 

the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all 
night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and 

bold, 
Through the window-slits of the cas- 
tle old, 
Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 



PART SECOND. 



There was never a leaf on bush or 

tree, 
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
The river was numb and could not 

speak, 
For the weaver Winter its shroud 

had spun ; 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
From his shining feathers shed off 

the cold sun ; 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and 

cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old, 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 



Sir Launfai turned from his own hard 

gate, 
For another heir in his earldom sate ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L. 



An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
He came back from seeking the Holy 

Grail ; 
Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
No more on his surcoat was blazoned 

the cross, 
But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
The badge of the suffering and the poor. 



Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
For it was just at the Christmas time : 
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier 

clime, 
And sought for a shelter from cold and 

snow 
In the light and warmth of long-ago ; 
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
O'er the edge of the desert, black and 

small, 
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by 

one, 
He can count the camels in the sun, 
As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of 

grass, 
The little spring laughed and leapt in 

the shade, 
And with its own self like an infant 

played, 
And waved its signal of palms. 



"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an 

alms" ; — 
The happy camels may reach the 

spring, 
But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome 

thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched 

bone, 
That cowers beside him, a thing as 

lone 
And white as the ice-isles of Northern 

seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 



And Sir Launfal said, — " T behold in 

thee 
An image of Him who died on the 

tree ; 



Thou also hast had thy crown of 

thorns, — 
Thou also hast had the world's buffets 

and scorns, — 
And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and 

side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee ! " 



Then the soul of the leper stood up in 

his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and 

straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 

He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he girt his young life up in 

gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy 

Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and 

dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's 

brink, 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown 

bread, 
'T was water out of a wooden bowl, — 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the 

leper fed, 
And 't was red wine he drank with 

his thirsty soul. 



As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast 

face, 
A light shone round about the place ; 
The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
But stood before him glorified, 
Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beauti- 
ful Gate, — 
Himself the Gate whereby men can 
Enter the temple of God in Man. 



His words were shed softer than leaves 

from the pine, 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows 

on the brine, 



THE VISION OF SIR LA UNFA L. 



Which mingle their softness and quiet 

in one 
With the shaggy unrest they float down 

upon ; 
And the voice that was calmer than 

silence said, 
" Lo it is I, be not afraid ! 
In many climes, without avail, 
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy 

Grail ; 
Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but 

now ; 
This crust is my body broken for thee, 
This water His blood that died on the 

tree ; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
In whatso we share with another's 

need ; 
Not what we give, but what we share, — 
For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
Who gives himself with his alms feeds 

three, — 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and 

me " 



Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : — 
"The Grail in my castle here is found ! 
Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy 
Grail." 



The castle gate stands open now, 
And the wanderer is welcome to the 

hall 
A? lie hangbird is to the elm-tree 

bough ; 



No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at 

the door, 
She entered with him in disguise, 
And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
There is no spot she loves so well on 

ground, 
She lingers and smiles there the whole 

year round ; 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
Has hall and bower at his command ; 
And there 's no poor man in the North 

Countree 
But is lord of the earldom as much as 

he. 



NOTE. — According to the mythology of 
the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, 
was the cup out of which Jesus partook of 
the last supper with his disciples. It was 
brought into England by Joseph of Arima- 
thea, and remained there, an object of pil- 
grimage and adoration, for many years in 
the keeping of his lineal descendants. It 
was incumbent upon those who had charge 
of it to be chaste in thought, word, and 
deed ; but one of the keepers having broken 
this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. 
From that time it was a favorite enterprise 
of the knights of Arthur's court to go in 
search of it. Sir Galahad was at last suc- 
cessful in finding it, as may be read in the 
seventeenth boolc of the Romance of King 
Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad 
the subject of one of the most exquisite of 
his poems. 

The plot (if I may give that name to any- 
thing so slight) of the foregoing poem is my 
own, and, to serve its purposes, I have en- 
larged the circle of competition in search of 
the miraculous cup in such a manner as to in- 
clude, not only other persons than the heroes 
of the Round Table, but also a period of 
time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's 
reign ! 



Reader ! walk up at once (it will soon be too late) 
and buy at a perfectly ruinous rate 



FABLE FOR CRITICS; 

OR, BETTER, 

(/ like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, 

an old-fashioned title-page, 

such as presents a tabular view of the volume's contents?) 

A GLANCE 

AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES 
(Mrs. Malapropos word) 

FROM 

THE TUB OF DIOGENES; 
A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY, 

THAT IS, 

A SERIES OF JOKES 

who accompanies himself with a rub-a- dub- dub, full of spirit and grace, 
on the top of the tub. 

Set forth in October, the 31st day, 

In the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway. 



TO 

CHARLES F. BRIGGS, 

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



It being the commonest mode of pro- 
cedure, I premise a few candid re- 
marks 

To the Reader : — 

This trifle, begun to please only my- 
self and niy own private fancy, was 
laid on the shelf. But some friends, 
who had seen it, induced me, by dint 
of saying they liked it, to put it in print. 
That is, having come to that very con- 
clusion, I consulted them when it could 
make no confusion. For (though in 
the gentlest of ways) they had hinted 
it was scarce worth the while, I should 
doubtless have printed it. 

I began'it, intending a Fable, a frail, 
slender thing, rhyme-ywinged, with a 
sting in its tail. But, by addings and 
alterings not previously planned, — di- 
gressions chance-hatched, like birds' 
eggs in the sand, — and dawdlings to 
suit every whimsy's demand (always 
freeing the bird which I held in my 
hand, for the two perched, perhaps out 
of reach, in the tree), — it grew by de- 
grees to the size which you see. I was 
like the old woman that carried the 
calf, and my neighbors, like hers, no 
doubt, wonder and laugh, and when, 
my strained arms with their grown bur- 
then full, I call it my Fable, they call 
it a bull. 

Having scrawled at full gallop (as 
far as that goes) in a style that is neither 
good verse nor bad prose, and being a 
person whom nobody knows, some peo- 
ple will say I am rather more free with 
my readers than it is becoming to be, 
that I seem to expect them to wait on 
my leisure in following wherever I wan- 
der at pleasure, that, in short, I take 
more than a young author's lawful ease, 
and laugh in a queer way so like Me- 
phistopheles, that the public will doubt, 



as they grope through my rhythm, if in 
truth I am making fun at them or with 
them. 

So the excellent Public is hereby as- 
sured that the sale of my book is already 
secured. For there is not a poet 
throughout the whole land but will 
purchase a copy or two out of hand, in 
the fond expectation of being amused 
in it, by seeing his betters cut up and 
abused in it. Now, I find, by a pretty 
exact calculation, there are something 
like ten thousand bards in the nation, 
of that special variety whom the Review 
and Magazine critics call lofty and 
true, and about thirty thousand {this 
tribe is increasing) of the kinds who 
are termed full of promise and pleas- 
ing. The Public will see by a glance 
at this schedule, that they cannot ex- 
pect me to be over-sedulous about 
courting them^ since it seems I have 
got enough fuel made sure of for boil- 
ing my pot. 

As for such of our poets as find not 
their names mentioned once in my 
pages, with praises or blames, let them 
send in their cards, without further 
delay, to my friend G. P. Putnam, 
Esquire, in Broadway, where a list 
will be kept with the strictest regard 
to the day and the hour of receiving the 
card. Then, taking them up as I 
chance to have time (that is, if their 
names can be twisted in rhyme), I will 
honestly give each his proper posi- 
tion, at the rate of one author to 
each new edition. Thus a PRE- 
MIUM is offered sufficiently high (as 
the magazines say when they tell their 
best lie) to induce bards to club their 
resources and buy the balance of every 
edition, until they have all of them 
fairly been run through the mill. 

One word to such readers (judiciou*. 



126 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



and wise) as read books with something 
behind the mere eyes, of whom in the 
country, perhaps, there are two, in- 
cluding myself, gentle reader, and you. 
All the characters sketched in this 
slight jeu a" esprit, though, it may be, 
they seem, here and there, rather free, 
and drawn from a Mephistophelian 
stand-point, are meant to be faithful, 
and that is the grand point, and none 
but an owl would feel sore at a rub 
from a jester who tells you, without any 
subterfuge, that he sits in Diogenes' 
tub. 



A PRELIMINARY NOTE TO 
THE SECOND EDITION, 

though it well may be reckoned, of all 
composition, the species at once most 
delightful and healthy, is a thing which 
an author, unless he be wealthy and 
willing to pay for that kind of delight, 
is not, in all instances, called on to 
write. Though there are, it is said, 
who, their spirits to cheer, slip in a new 
title-page three times a year, and in 
this way snuff up an imaginary savor 
of that sweetest of dishes, the popular 
favor, — much as if a starved painter 
should fall to and treat the Ugolino in- 
side to a picture of meat. 

You remember (if not, pray turn 
over and look) that, in writing the 
preface which ushered my book, I 
treated you, excellent Public, not mere- 
ly with a cool disregard, but downright 
cavalierly. Now I would not take back 
the least thing I then said, though I 
thereby could butter both sides of my 
bread, for I never could see that an 
author owed aught to the people he 
solaced, diverted, or taught ; and, as 
for mere fame, I have long ago learned 
that the persons by whom it is finally 
earned are those with whom your ver- 
dict weighed not a pin, unsustained by 
the higher court sitting within. 

But I wander from what I intended 
to say, — that you have, namely, shown 
such a liberal way of thinking, and so 
much aesthetic perception of anony- 
mous worth in the handsome reception 



you gave to my book, spite of some 
private piques (having bought the first 
thousand in barely two weeks), that I 
think, past a doubt, if you measured the 
phiz of yours most devotedly, Won- 
derful Quiz, you would find that its 
vertical section was shorter, by an inch 
and two tenths, or 'twixt that and a 
quarter. 

You have watched a child playing — 
in those wondrous years when belief is 
not bound to the eyes and the ears, and 
the vision divine is so clear and un- 
marred, that each baker of pies in the 
dirt is a bard ? Give a knife and a 
shingle, he fits out a fleet, and, on that 
little mud-puddle over the street, his 
invention, in purest good faith, will 
make sail round the globe with a puff 
of his breath for a gale, will visit in 
barely ten minutes, all climes, and find 
Northwestern passages hundreds of 
times. Or, suppose the young Poet 
fresh stored with delights from that 
Bible of childhood, the Arabian Nights, 
he will turn to a crony and try, " Jack, 
let 's play that I am a Genius ! " Jacky 
straightway makes Aladdin's lamp out 
of a stone, and, for hours, they en- 
joy each his own supernatural pow- 
ers. This is all very pretty and 
pleasant, but then suppose our two ur- 
chins have grown into men, and both 
have turned authors, — one says to his 
brother, " Let 's play we 're the Amer- 
ican somethings or other, — say Homer 
or Sophocles, Goethe or Scott (only 
let them be big enough, no matter 
what). Come, you shall be Byron or 
Pope, which you choose : I '11 be Cole- 
ridge, and both shall write mutual 
reviews." So they both (as mere 
strangers) before many days, send 
each other a cord of anonymous bays. 
Each, piling his epithets, smiles in 
his sleeve to see what his friend .can 
be made to believe ; each, reading 
the other's unbiased review, thinks — 
Here's pretty high praise, but no more 
than is true. Well, we laugh at them 
both, and yet make no great fuss when 
the same farce is acted to benefit us. 
Even I, who, if asked, scarce a month 
since, what Fudge meant, should have 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



127 



answered, the dear Public's critical 
judgment, begin to think sharp-witted 
Horace spoke sooth when he said, that 
the Public sometimes hit the truth. 

In reading these lines, you perhaps 
have a vision of a person in pretty good 
health and condition, and yet, since I 
put forth my primary edition, I have 
been crushed, scorched, withered, used 
up and put down (by Smith with the 
cordial assistance of Brown), in all, if 
you put any faith in my rhymes, to the 
number of ninety-five several times, 
and, while I am writing, — I tremble to 
think of it,Jbr I may at this moment be 
just on the brink of it, — Molybdostom, 
angry at being omitted, has begun a 
critique, — am I not to be pitied ? * 

Now I shall not crush them, since, 
indeed, for that matter, no pressure I 
know of could render them flatter ; nor 
wither, nor scorch them, — no action 
of fire could make either them or their 
articles drier ; nor waste time in put- 
ting them down — I am thinking not 
their own self-inflation will keep them 
from sinking; for there 's this contradic- 
tion about the whole bevy, — though 
without the least weight, they are awful- 
ly heavy. No, my dear honest bore, 
surdo fabulam narras, they are no 
more to me than a rat in the arras. I 
can walk with the Doctor, get facts 
from the Don, or draw out the Lambish 
quintessence of John, and feel nothing 
more than a half-comic sorrow, to think 
that they all will be lying to-morrow 
tossed carelessly up on the waste-paper 
shelves, and forgotten by all but their 
half-dozen selves. Once snug in my 
attic, my fire in a roar, I leave the 
whole pack of them outside the door. 
With Hakluyt or Purchas I wander 
away to the black northern seas or bar- 
baric Cathay ; get/ou with O'Shanter, 
and sober me then with that builder of 
brick-kilnish dramas, rare Ben ; snuff 
Herbert, as holy as a flower on a grave ; 
with Fletcher wax tender, o'er Chap- 

* The wise Scandinavians probably called 
their bards by the queer-looking- title of 
Scald, in a delicate way, as it were, just to 
hint to the world the hot water they always 
get into. 



man grow brave ; with Marlowe or 
Kyd take a fine poet-rave ; in Very, 
most Hebrew of Saxons, find peace ; 
with Lycidas welter on vext Irish seas ; 
with Webster grow wild, and climb 
earthward again, down by mystical 
Browne's Jacob's-ladder-like brain, to 
that spiritual Pepys (Cotton's version) 
Montaigne ; find a new depth in Words- 
worth, undreamed of before, — that 
divinely inspired, wise, deep, tender, 
grand - bore. Or, out of my study, 
the scholar thrown off, Nature holds up 
her shield 'gainst the sneer and the 
scoff; the landscape, forever consoling 
and kind, pours her wine and her oil 
on the smarts of the mind. The water- 
falls, scattering its vanishing gems ; 
the tall grove of hemlocks, with moss 
on their stems, like plashes of sun- 
light ; the pond in the woods, where 
no foot but mine and the bittern's in- 
trudes ; these are all my kind neigh- 
bors, and leave me no wish to say 
aught to you all, my poor critics, but — 
pish ! I have buried the hatchet : I am 
twisting an allumette out of one of you 
now, and relighting my calumet. In 
your private capacities, come when you 
please, I will give you my hand and a 
fresh pipe apiece. 

As I ran through the leaves of 
my poor little book, to take a fond au- 
thor's first tremulous look, it was quite 
an excitement to hunt the errata, 
sprawled in as birds' tracks are in some 
kinds of strata (only these made things 
crookeder). Fancy an heir, that a father 
had seen born well-featured and fair, 
turning suddenly wry-nosed, club- 
footed, squint-e5 r ed, hair-lipped, wap- 
per-jawed, carrot haired, from a pride 
become an aversion, — my case was yet 
worse. A club-foot (by way of a change) 
in a verse, I might have forgiven, an 
tf's being wry, a limp in an e, or a cock 
in an i, — but to have the sweet babe 
of my brain served in pi ! I am not 
queasy-stomached, but such a Thyes- 
tean banquet as that was quite out of 
the question. 

Iu the edition now issued, no pains 
are neglected, and my verses, as oratory 
say, stand corrected. Yet some biun j 



128 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



ders remain of the public's own make, 
which 1 wish to correct for my personal 
sake. For instance, a character drawn 
in pure fun and condensing the traits 
of a dozen in one, has been, as I hear, 
by some persons applied to a good 
friend of mine, whom to stab in the 
side, as we walked along chatting and 
joking together, would not be my way. 
1 can hardly tell whether a question 
will ever arise in which he and 1 should 
by any strange fortune agree, but mean- 
while my esteem for him grows as I 
know him, and, though not the best 
judge on earth of a poem, he knows 
what it is he is saying and why, and is 
honest and fearless, two good points 
which I have not found so rife I can 



easily smother my love for them, 
whether on my side or t'other. 

For my other anonymi y you may be 
sure that I know what is meant by a 
caricature, and what by a portrait. 
There are those who think it is capital 
fun to be spattering their ink on quiet, 
unquarrelsome folk, but the minute ihe 
game changes sides and the others be- 
gin it, they see something savage and 
horrible in it. As for me I respect 
neither women nor men for their gender, 
nor own any sex in a pen. I choose 
just to hint to some causeless unfriends 
that, as far as I know, there are always 
two ends (and one of them heaviest, 
too) to a staff, and two parties also to 
every good laugh. 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel- 
tree's shade, 

Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it 
was made, 

For the god being one day too warm in 
his wooing, 

She took to the tree to escape his pur- 
suing ; 

Be the cause what it might, from his 
offers she shrunk, 

And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a 
trunk ; 

And, though 't was a step into which he 
had driven her, 

He somehow or other had never for- 
given her ; 

Her memory he nursed as a kind of a 
tonic, 

Something bitter to chew when he *d 
play the Byronic, 

And I can't count the obstinate nymphs 
that he brought over, 

By a strange kind of smile he put on 
when he thought of her. 

" My case is like Dido's," he some- 
times remarked ; 

" When I last saw my love, she was 
fairly embarked 

In a laurel, as she thought — but (ah 
how Fate mocks !) 

She has found it by this time a very bad 
box ; 

Let hunters from me take this saw when 
they need it, — 

You 're not always sure of your game 
when you 've treed it. 

Just conceive such a change taking 
place in one's mistress ! 

What romance would be left? — who 
can flatter or kiss trees ? 

And, for mercy's sake, how could one 
keep up a dialogue 
9 



With a dull wooden thing that will live 
and will die a log, — 

Not to say that the thought would for- 
ever intrude 

That you 've less chance to win her the 
more she is wood ? 

Ah ! it went to my heart, and the mem- 
ory still grieves, 

To see those loved graces all taking 
their leaves ; 

Those charms beyond speech, so en- 
chanting but now, 

As they left me forever, each making its 
bough ! 

If her tongue had a tang sometimes 
more than was right, 

Her new bark is worse than ten times 
her old bite.'* 

Now, Daphne, — before she was hap- 
pily treeified, — 

Over all other blossoms the lily had 
deified, 

And when she expected the god on a 
visit 

('T was before he had made his inten- 
tions explicit), 

Some buds she arranged with a vast 
deal of care, 

To look as if artlessly twined in her hair, 

Where they seemed, as he said, when 
he paid his addresses, 

Like the day breaking through the long 
night of her tresses ; 

So whenever he wished to be quite irre- 
sistible, 

Like a man with eight trumps in his 
hand at a whist-table 

(I feared me at first that the rhyme was 
untwistable, 

Though I might have lugged in an allu- 
sion to Cristabel), — 



i3<> 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



He would take up a lily, and gloomily 

look in it, 
As I shall at the - — -, when they cut 

up my book in it. 

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme 
I 've been spinning, 

I 've got back at last to my story's be- 
ginning : 

Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of 
his mistress, 

As dull as a volume of old Chester mys- 
teries, 

Or as those puzzling specimens, which, 
in old histories, 

We read of his verses — the Oracles, 
namely, — 

(I wonder the Greeks should have 
swallowed them tamely. 

For one might bet safely whatever he 
has to risk, 

They were laid at his door by some an- 
cient Miss Asterisk, 

And so dull that the men who retailed 
them out-doors 

Got the ill name of augurs, because 
they were bores, — ) 

First, he mused what the animal sub- 
stance or herb is 

Would induce a mustache, for you 
know he 's imbcrbis ; 

Then he shuddered to think how his 
youthful position 

Was assailed by the age of his son the 
physician ; 

At some poems he glanced, had been 
sent to him lately. 

And the metre and sentiment puzzled 
him greatly ; 

" Mehercle ! I 'd make such proceed- 
ing felonious, — 

Have they all of them slept in the cave 
of Trophonius ? 

Look well to your seat, 't is like taking 
an airing 

On a corduroy road, and that out of re- 
pairing ; 

It leads one, 't is true, through the 
primitive forest, 

Grand natural features, — but, then, one 
has no rest ; 

You just catch a glimpse of some rav- 
ishing distance, 

When a jolt puts the whole of it out of 
existence, — 



Why not use their ears, if they happen 

to have any ? " 
— Here the laurel-leaves murmured 

the name of poor Daphne. 

" O, weep with me, Daphne," he 

sighed, "for you know it 's 
A terrible thing to be pestered with 

poets ! 
But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb 

holds good, 
She never will cry till she 's out of the 

wood ! 
What would n't I give if I never had 

known of her? 
'Twere a kind of relief had I some- 
thing to groan over : 
If I had but some letters of hers, now, 

to toss over, 
I might turn for the nonce a Byronic 

philosopher, 
And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning 

the loss of her. 
One needs something tangible, though, 

to begin on, — 
A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin 

on ; 
What boots all your grist ? it can never 

be ground 
Till a breeze makes the arms of the 

windmill go round 
(Or, if 't is a water-mill, alter the meta- 
phor, 
And say it won't stir, save the wheel be 

well wet afore, 
Or lug in some stuff about water " so 

dreamily," — 
It is not a metaphor, though, 't is a 

simile) ; 
A lily, perhaps, would set my mill 

a-going, 
For just at this season, I think, they 

are blowing. 
Here, somebody, fetch one, not very 

far hence 
They 're in bloom by the score, 't is 

but climbing a fence ; 
There 's a poet hard by, who does noth- 
ing but fill his 
Whole garden, from one end to t'other, 

with lilies ; 
A very good plan, were it not for sati- 
ety, 
One longs for a weed here and there, 

for variety ; 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS 



131 



Though a weed is no more than a flower 

in disguise, 
Which is seen through at once, if love 
give a man eyes." 

Now there happened to be among 

Phcebus's followers, 
A gentleman, one of the omnivorous 

swallowers, 
Who bolt every book that comes out of 

the press, 
Without the least question of larger or 

less, 
Whose stomachs are strong at the ex- 
pense of their head, — 
For reading new books is like eating 

new bread, 
One can bear it at first, but by gradual 

steps he 
Is brought to death's door of a mental 

dyspepsy. 
On a previous stage of existence, our 

Hero 
Had ridden outside, with the glass be- 
low zero ; 
He had been, 't is a fact you may safely 

rely on, 
Of a very old stock a most eminent 

scion, — 
A stock all fresh quacks their fierce 

boluses ply on, 
Who stretch the new boots Earth 's 

unwilling to try on, 
Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts 

keep their eye on, 
Whose hair 's in the mortar of every 

new Zion, 
Who, when whistles are dear, go direct- 
ly and buy one, 
Who think slavery a crime that we 

must not say fie on, 
Who hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with 

the lion 
(Though they hunt lions also, whenever 

they spy one), 
Who contrive to make every good for- 
tune a wry one, 
And at last choose the hard bed of 

honor to die on, 
Whose pedigree, traced to earth's 

earliest years, 
Is longer than anything else but their 

ears ; — 
In short, he was sent into life with the 

wrong key, 



He unlocked the door, and stept forth 
a poor donkey. 

Though kicked and abused by his bi- 
pedal betters 

Yet he filled no mean place in the king- 
dom of letters ; 

Far happier than many a literary 
hack, 

He bore only paper-mill rags on his 
back 

(For it makes a vast difference which 
side the mill 

One expends on the paper his labor 
and skill) ; 

So, when his soul waited a new trans- 
migration, 

And Destiny balanced 'twixt this and 
that station, 

Not having much time, to expend upon 
bothers, 

Remembering he 'd had some connec- 
tion with authors, 

And considering his four legs had grown 
paralytic, — 

She set him on two, and he came forth 
a critic. 

Through his babyhood no kind of 

pleasure he took 
In any amusement but tearing a book ; 
For him there was no intermediate stage 
From babyhood up to straight-laced 

middle age ; 
There were years when he did n't wear 

coat-tails behind, 
But a boy he could never be rightly de- 
fined ; 
Like the Irish Good Folk, though in 

length scarce a span, 
From the womb he came gravely, a 

little old man ; 
While other boys' trousers demanded 

the toil 
Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of 

soil, 
Red, yellow, brown, black, clayey, 

gravelly, loamy, 
He sat in the corner and read Viri 

Romae. 
He never was known to unbend or to 

revel once 
In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up 

the devil once ; 
He was just one of those who excite 

the benevolence 



I 3 2 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Of your old prigs who sound the soul's 
depths with a ledger, 

And are on the lookout for some young 
men to ' edger- 

-cate," as they call it, who won't be too 
costly, 

And who '11 afterward take to the 
ministry mostly ; 

Who always wear spectacles, always 
look bilious, 

Always keep on good terms with each 
mater- fa m ilias 

Throughout the whole parish, and man- 
age to rear 

Ten boys like themselves, on four hun- 
dred a year : 

Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful 
conditions, 

Either preach through their noses, or 
go upon missions. 

In this way our hero got safely to 
college, 

Where he bolted alike both his com- 
mons and knowledge ; 

A reading-machine, always wound up 
and going, 

He mastered whatever was not worth 
the knowing, 

Appeared in a gown, and a vest of 
black satin, 

To spout such a Gothic oration in 
Latin 

That Tully could never have made out 
a word in it 

(Though himself was the model the 
author preferred in it), 

And grasping the parchment which gave 
him in fee 

All the mystic and-so-forths contained 
in A. B., 

He was launched (life is always com- 
pared to a sea), 

With just enough learning, and skill 
for the using it, 

To prove he 'd a brain, by forever con- 
fusing it. 

So worthy St. Benedict, piously burn- 
ing 

With the holiest zeal against secular 
learning, 

Nesciensque scienter, as writers express 
it, 

Indoctusque sapientera Roma recessit. 



'T would be endless to tell you th« 

things that he knew, 
All separate facts, undeniably true, 
But with him or each other they 'd 

nothing to do ; 
No power of combining, arranging, dis- 
cerning, 
Digested the masses he learned into 

learning ; 
There was one thing in life he had 

practical knowledge for 
(And this, you will think, he need 

scarce go to college for), — 
Not a deed would he do, nor a word 

would he utter, 
Till he 'd weighed its relations to plain 

bread and butter. 
When he left Alma Mater, he practised 

his wits 
In compiling the journals' historical 

bits, — 
Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, 
Great fortunes in England bequeathed 

to poor printers, 
And cold spells, the coldest for many 

past winters, — 
Then, rising by industry, knack, and 

address, 
Got notices up for an unbiased press, 
With a mind so well poised, it seemed 

equally made for 
Applause or abuse, just which chanced 

to be paid for : 
From this point his progress was rapid 

and sure, 
To the post of a regular heavy reviewer. 

And here I must say he wrote ex- 
cellent articles 

On the Hebraic points, or the force 
of Greek particles, 

They filled up the space nothing else 
was prepared for ; 

And nobody read that which nobody 
cared for ; 

If any old book reached a fiftieth edition, 

He could fill forty pages with safe erudi- 
tion : 

He could gauge the old books by the 
old set of rules. 

And his very old nothings pleased very 
old fools ; 

But give him a new book, fresh out of 
the heart, 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



*33 



And you put him at sea without com- 
pass or chart, — 

His blunders aspired to the rank of an 
art ; 

For his lore was engraft, something 
foreign that grew in him, 

Exhausting the sap of the native and 
true in him, 

So that when a man came with a soul 
that was new in him, 

Carving new forms of truth out of Na- 
ture's old granite, 

New and old at their birth, like Le 
Verrier s planet, 

Which, to get a true judgment, them- 
selves must create 

In the soul of their critic the measure 
and weight, 

Being rather themselves a fresh stand- 
ard of grace, 

To compute their own judge, and assign 
him his place, 

Our reviewer would crawl all about it 
and round it, 

And, reporting each circumstance just 
as he found it, 

Without the least malice, — his record 
would be 

Profoundly aesthetic as that of a flea, 

Which, supping on Wordsworth, should 
print, for our sakes, 

Recollections of nights with the Bard 
of the Lakes, 

Or, lodged by an Arab guide, ventured 
to render a 

General view of the ruins at Denderah. 

As I said, he was never precisely 
unkind, 

The defect in his brain was just absence 
of mind ; 

If he boasted, 't was simply that he was 
self-made, 

A position which I, for one, never gain- 
said, 

My respect for my Maker supposing a 
skill 

In his works which our Hero would an- 
swer but ill ; 

And I trust that the mould which he 
used may be cracked, or he, 

Made bold by success, may enlarge his 
phylactery, 

And set up a kind of a man-manufac- 
tory v t*- 



An event which I shudder to think 
about, seeing 

That Man is a moral, accountable be- 
ing. 

He meant well enough, but was still 
in the way, 

As a dunce always is, let him be where 
he may ; 

Indeed, they appear to come into ex- 
istence 

To impede other folks with their awk- 
ward assistance , 

If you set up a dunce on the very 
North pole, 

All alone with himself, I believe, on my 
soul, 

He 'd manage to get betwixt somebody's 
shins, 

And pitch him down bodily, all in his 
sins, 

To the grave polar bears sitting round 
on the ice, 

All shortening their grace, to be in for 
a slice ; 

Or, if he found nobody else there to 
pother, 

Why, one of his legs would just trip up 
the other, 

For there 's nothing we read of in tor- 
ture's inventions, 

Like a well-meaning dunce, with the 
best of intentions. 

A terrible fellow to meet in society, 

Not the toast that he buttered was ever 
so dry at tea ; 

There he 'd sit at the table and stir in 
his sugar, 

Crouching close for a spring, all the 
while, like a cougar ; 

Be sure of your facts, of your measures 
and weights, 

Of your time, — he's as fond as an Arab 
of dates ; — 

You '11 be telling, perhaps, in your com- 
ical way, 

Of something you 've seen in the course 
of the day ; 

And, just as you 're tapering out the 
conclusion, 

You venture an ill-fated classic allu- 
sion, — 

The girls have all got their laughs ready, 
when, whack I 



134 



A FABLE FOR CRJJJCS. 



-your 



The cougar comes down on your thun- 
derstruck back ! 
You had left out a comma, 

Greek 's put in joint, 
And pointed at cost of your story's 

whole point. 
In the course of the evening, you ven- 
ture on certain 
Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of 

the curtain : 
You tell her your heart can be likened 

to o?ie flower, 
" And that, O most charming of 

women, 's the sunflower, 
Which turns " — here a clear nasal 

voice, to your terror, 
From outside the curtain, says, "That's 

all an error." 
As for him, he 's — no matter, he never 

grew tender, 
Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the 

fender, 
Shaping somebody's sweet features out 

of cigar smoke, 
(Though he 'd willingly grant you that 

such doings are smoke) ; 
All women he damns with mutabile 

semper, 
And if ever he felt something like 

love's distemper, 
*T was towards a young lady who spoke 

ancient Mexican, 
And assisted her father in making a 

lexicon ; 
Though I recollect hearing him get 

quite ferocious 
About Mary Clausum, the mistress of 

Grotius, 
Or something of that sort, — but, no 

more to bore ye 
With character-painting, I '11 turn to 

my story. 

Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient 

sometimes 
To get his court clear of the makers 

of rhymes, 
1b.Q genus, I think it is called, irrita- 

bile, 
Every one of whom thinks himself 

treated most shabbily, 
And nurses a — what is it ? — imtnedi- 

cabile, 
Which keeps him at boiling-point, hot 

for a quarrel, 



As bitter as wormwood, and sourer 
than sorrel, 

If any poor devil but look at a laurel ; — 

Apollo, I say, being sick of their riot- 
ing 

(Though he sometimes acknowledged 
their verse had a quieting 

Effect after dinner, and seemed to sug- 
gest a 

Retreat to the shrine of a tranquil 
siesta), 

Kept our Hero at hand, who, by means 
of a bray, 

Which he gave to the life, drove the 
rabble away ; 

And if that would n't do, he was sure 
to succeed, 

If he took his review out and offered 
to read ; 

Or, failing in plans of this milder de- 
scription, 

He would ask for their aid to get up a 
subscription, 

Considering that authorship wasn't a 
rich craft, 

To print the "American drama of 
Witchcraft." 

"Stay, I '11 read you a scene," — but 
he hardly began, 

Ere Apollo shrieked " Help ! " and the 
authors all ran : 

And once, when these purgatives acted 
with less spirit, 

And the desperate case asked a remedy 
desperate, 

He drew from his pocket a foolscap 
epistle, 

As calmly as if 't were a nine-barrelled 
pistol, 

And threatened them all with the judg- 
ment to come, 

Of "A wandering Star's first impres- 
sions of Rome." 

" Stop ! stop ! " with their hands o'er 
their ears, screamed the Muses, 

"He may go off and murder himself, if 

he chooses, 
'T was a means self-defence only sanc- 
tioned his trying, 
'T is mere massacre now that the ene- 
my 's flying ; 
If he 's forced to 't again, and we hap- 
pen to be there, 
Give us each a large handkerchief 
soaked in strong ether." 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



135 



I called this a " Fable for Critics " ; 

you think it 's 
More like a display of my rhythmical 

trinkets ; 
My plot, like an icicle, 's slender and 

slippery, 
Every moment more slender, and likely 

to slip awry, 
And the reader unwilling in loco desi- 

pere, 
Is free to jump over as much of my frip- 
pery 
As he fancies, and, if he 's a provident 

skipper, he 
May have an Odyssean sway of the 

gales, 
And get safe to port, ere his patience 

quite fails ; 
Moreover, although 'tis a slender re- 
turn 
For your toil and expense, yet my pa- 
per will burn, 
And, if you have manfully struggled 

thus far with me, 
You may e'en twist me up, and just 

light your cigar with me : 
If too angry for that, you can tear me 

in pieces, 
And my membra disjecta consign to 

the breezes, 
A fate like great Ratzau's, whom one 

of those bores, 
Who beflead with bad verses poor 

Louis Quatorze. 
Describes (the first verse somehow ends 

with victoire), 
As dispersant partout et ses membres 

et sa gloire ; 
Or, if I were over-desirous of earning 
A repute among noodles for classical 

learning, 
I could pick you a ?core of allusions, I 

wis, 
As new as the jests of Didaskalos tis ; 
Better still, I could make out a good 

solid list 
From recondite authors who do not ex- 
ist,— 
But that would be naughty : at least, I 

could twist 
Something out of Absyrtus, or turn your 

inquiries 
After Milton's prose metaphor, drawn 

from Osiris ; — 



But, as Cicero says he won't say this or 
that 

(A fetch, I must say, most transparent 
and flat), 

After saying whate'er he could possibly 
think of, — 

I simply will state that I pause on the 
brink of 

A mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate con- 
fusion, 

Made up of old jumbles of classic allu- 
sion, 

So, when you were thinking yourselves 
to be pitied, 

Just conceive how much harder your 
teeth you 'd have gritted, 

An 't were not for the dulness I 've 
kindly omitted. 

I 'd apologize here for my many di- 
gressions, 
Were it not that I 'm certain to trip into 

fresh ones . 
('T is so hard to escape if you get in 

their mesh once) ; 
Just reflect, if you please, how 't is said 

by Horatius, 
That Masonides nods now and then, 

and, my gracious ! 
It certainly does look a little bit omi- 
nous 
When he gets under way with ton 

d? apameibomenos. 
(Here a something occurs which I '11 

just clap a rhyme to, 
And say it myself, ere a Zoilus have 

time to, — 
Any author a nap like Van Winkle's 

may take, 
If he only contrive to keep readers 

awake, 
But he '11 very soon find himself laid on 

the shelf, 
If they fall a*noddiug when he nods 

himself.) 

Once for all, to return, and to stay, 

willl, nilll — 
When Phoebus expressed his desire for 

a lily, 
Our hero, whose homoeopathic sagacity 
With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop 

of capacity. 
Set off for the garden as fast as the wind 



136 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



(Or, to take a comparison more to my 

mind, 
As a sound politician leaves conscience 

behind), 
And leaped the low fence, as a party 

hack jumps 
O'er his principles, when something 

else turns up trumps. 

He was gone a long time, and Apollo, 
meanwhile, 

Went over some sonnets of his with a 
file, 

For, of all compositions, he thought 
that the sonnet 

Best repaid all the toil you expended 
upon it ; 

It should reach with one impulse the 
end of its course, 

And for one final blow collect all of its 
force ; 

Not a verse should be salient, but each 
one should tend 

With a wave-like up-gathering to burst 
at the end ; — 

So, condensing the strength here, there 
smoothing a wry kink, 

He was killing the time, when up walked 
Mr. ; 

At a few steps behind him, a small man 
in glasses 

Went dodging about, muttering, "Mur- 
derers ! asse 1 " 

From out of his pocket a paper he 'd take, 

With the proud look of martyrdom tied 
to its stake, 

And, reading a squib at himself, he 'd 
say, " Here I see 

'Gainst American letters a bloody con- 
spiracy, 

They are all by my personal enemies 
written ; 

I must post an anonymous letter to 
Britain, 

And show that this gall is the merest 
suggestion 

Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright 
question, 

For, on this side the water, 't is pru- 
dent to pull 

O'er the eyes of the public their na- 
tional wool, 

By accusing of slavish respect to John 
Bud 



All American authors who have more 
or less 

Of that anti-American humbug — suc- 
cess, 

While in private we 're always em- 
bracing the knees 

Of some twopenny editor over the 
seas, 

And licking his critical shoes, for you 
know 't is 

The whole aim of our lives to get one 
English notice ; 

My American puffs I would willingly 
burn all 

(They 're all from one source, monthly, 
weekly, diurnal) 

To get but a kick from a transmarine 
journal !" 

So, culling the gibes of each critical 
scorner 

As if they were plums, and himself 
were Jack Horner, 

He came cautiously on, peeping .round 
every corner, 

And into each hole where a weasel 
might pass in, 

Expecting the knife of some critic as- 
sassin, 

Who stabs to the heart with a carica- 
ture, 

Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, 
to be sure, 

Yet done with a dagger-o'-type, whose 
vile portraits 

Disperse all one's good and condense 
all one's poor traits. 

Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps 

approaching, 
And slipped out of sight the new rhymes 

he was broaching, — 
" Good day, Mr. , I 'm happy to 

meet, 
With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so 

neat, 
Who through Grub Street the soul of 

a gentleman carries ; 
What news from that suburb of London 

and Paris 
Which latterly makes such shrill claims 

to monopolize 
The credit of being the New World's 

metropolis? " 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



J 37 



" Why, nothing of consequence, save 

this attack 
On my friend there, behind, by some 

pitiful hack, 
Who thinks every national author a 

poor one, 
That is n't a copy of something that 's 

foreign, 
And assaults the American Dick — ** 

" Nay, 't is clear 
That your Damon there 's fond of a flea 

in his ear, 
And, if no one else furnished them 

gratis, on tick 
He would buy some himself, just to 

hear the old click ; 
Why, I honestly think, if some fool in 

Japan 
Should turn up his nose at the * Poems 

on Man,' 
Your friend there by some inward in- 
stinct would know it, 
Would get it translated, reprinted, and 

show it ; 
As a man might take off a high stock 

to exhibit 
The autograph round his own neck of 

the gibbet ; 
Nor would let it rest so, but fire column 

after column, 
Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something 

as solemn, _ 
By way of displaying his critical crosses, 
And tweaking that poor transatlantic 

proboscis, 
His broadsides resulting (this last 

there 's no doubt of) 
In successively sinking the craft they 're 

fired out of. 
Nownobodyknows when an author ishit, 
If he don't have a public hysterical fit ; 
Let him only keep close in his snug 

garret's dim ether, 
And nobody 'd think of his critics — or 

him either ; 
If an author have any least fibre of 

worth in him, 
Abuse would but tickle the organ of 

mirth in him ; 
All the critics on earth cannot crush 

with their ban 
One word that 's in tune with the nature 
of man. " 



" Well, perhaps so ; meanwhile I 
havf brought you a book, 

Into which if you '11 just have the good- 
ness to look, 

You may feel so delighted (when once 
you are through it) 

As to deem it not unworth your while 
to review it, 

And I think I can promise your 
thoughts, if you do, 

A place in the next Democratic Re- 
view." 

" The most thankless of gods you 

must surely have thought me, 
For this is the forty-fourth copy you 've 

brought me, 
I have given them away, or at least I 

have tried, 
But I 've forty-two left, standing all side 

by side 
(The man who accepted that one copy 

died), — 
From one end of a shelf to the other 

they reach, 
' With the author's respects ' neatly 

written in each. 
The publisher, sure, will proclaim a 

Te Deum, 
When he hears of that order the British 

Museum 
Has sent for one set of what books 

were first printed 
In America, little or big, — for 'tis 

hinted 
That this is the first truly tangible hope 

he 
Has ever had raised for the sale of acopy. 
I 've thought very often 't would be a 

good thing 
In all public collections of books, if a 

wing 
Were set off by itself, like the seas from 

the dry lands, 
Marked Literature suited to desolate 

islands, 
And filled with such books as could 

never be read 
Save by readers of proofs, forced to do 

it for bread, — 
Such books as one's wrecked on in 

small country- taverns, 
Such as hermits might mortify over in 

caverns, 



138 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Such as Satan, if printing had then 

been invented, 
As the climax of woe, would to Job 

have presented, 
Such as Crusoe might dip in, although 

there are few so 
Outrageously cornered by fate as poor 

Crusoe ; 
And since the philanthropists just now 

are banging 
And gibbeting all who 're in favor of 

hanging 
(Though Cheever has proved that the 

Bible and Altar 
Were let down from Heaven at the end 

of a halter, 
And that vital religion would dull and 

grow callous, 
Unrefreshed, now and then, with a 

sniff of the gallows), — 
And folks are beginning to think it looks 

odd, 
To choke a poor scamp for the glory of 

God; 
And that He who esteems the Virginia 

reel 
A bait to draw saints from their spiritual 

weal, 
And regards the quadrille as a far 

greater knavery 
Than crushing His African children 

with slavery, — 
Since all who take part in a waltz or 

cotillon 
Are mounted for hell on the Devil's 

own pillion, 
Who, as every true orthodox Christian 

well knows, 
Approaches the heart through the door 

of the toes, — 
That He, I was saying, whose judg- 
ments are stored 
For such as take steps in despite of his 

word, 
Should look with delight on the ago- 
nized prancing 
Of a wretch who has not the least 

ground for his dancing, 
While the State, standing by, sings a 

verse from the Psalter 
About offering to God on his favorite 

halter, 
And, when the legs droop from their 

twitching divergence, 



Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the 
corpse to the surgeons ; — 

Now, instead of all this, I think I 
can direct you all 

To a criminal code both humane and 
effectual ; — 

I propose to shut up every doer of 
wrong 

With these desperate books, for SvCli 
term, short or long, 

As by statute in such cases made and 
provided, 

Shall be by your wise legislators de- 
cided : 

Thus : — Let murderers be shut, to grow 
wiser and cooler, 

At hard labor for life on the works of 
Miss ; 

Petty thieves, kept from flagranter 
crimes by their fears, 

Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank 
term of years, — 

That American Punch, like the Eng- 
lish, no doubt, — 

Just the sugar and lemons and spirit 
left out. 

"But stay, here comes Tityrus Gris- 
wold, and leads on 

The flocks whom he first plucks alive, 
and then feeds on, — 

A loud-cackling swarm, in whose feath- 
ers warm-drest, 

He goes for as perfect a — swan as the 
rest. 

"There comes Emerson first, whose 

rich words, every one, 
Are like gold nails in temples to hang 

trophies on, 
Whose prose is grand verse, while his 

verse, the Lord knows, 
Is some of it pr — No, 't is not even 

prose : 
I 'm speaking of metres ; some poems 

have welled 
From those rare depths of soul that 

have ne'er been excelled ; 
They're not epics, but that doesn't 

matter a pin, 
In creating, the only hard thing 's to 

begin ; 
A grass-blade's no easier to make than 

an oak; 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



139 



If you 've once found the way, you 've 

achieved the grand stroke ; 
In the worst of his poems are mines of 

rich matter, 
But thrown in a heap with a crush and 

a clatter ; 
Nowitisnotone thing nor anotheralone 
Makes a poem, but rather the general 

tone, 
The something pervading, uniting the 

whole, 
The before unconceived, unconceivable 

soul, 
So that just in removing this trifle or 

that { you 
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of 

the statue ; 
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly 

perfect may be, 
But, ciapt hodge-podge together, they 

don't make a tree. 

"But, to come back to Emerson 
(whom, by the way, 

I believe we left waiting), — his is, we 
may say, 

A Greek head on right Yankee shoul- 
ders, whose range 

Has Olympus for one pole, for t'other 
the Exchange ; 

He seems, to my thinking (although 
I 'm afraid 

The comparison must, long ere this, 
have been made), 

A Plotinus - Montaigne, where the 
Egyptian's gold mist 

And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek- 
by-jowl coexist ; 

All admire, and yet scarcely six con- 
verts he 's got 

To I don't (nor they either) exactly 
know what ; 

For though he builds glorious temples, 
't is odd 

Heleavesneveradoorwaytogetinagod. 

'T is refreshing to old-fashioned people 
like me 

To meet such a primitive Pagan as he, 

In whose mind all creation is duly re- 
spected 

As parts of himself — just a little pro- 
jected ; 

And who 's willing to worship the stars 
and the sun, 



A convert to — nothing but Emerson. 

So perfect a balance there is in his 
head, 

That he talks of things sometimes as 
if they were dead ; 

Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of 
that sort, 

He looks at as merely ideas ; in short, 

As if they were fossils stuck round in a 
cabinet, 

Of such vast extent that our earth 's a 
mere dab in it ; 

Composed just as he is inclined to con- 
jecture her, 

Namely, one part pure earth, ninety- 
nine parts pure lecturer ; 

You are filled with delight at his clear 
demonstration, 

Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the 
occasion, 

With the quiet precision of science he '11 
sort 'em, 

But you can't help suspecting the whole 
a post mortem. 

"There are persons, mole-blind to 

the soul's make and style, 
Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and 

Carlyle ; 
To compare him with Plato would be 

vastly fairer, 
Carlyle's the more burly, but E. is the 

rarer ; 
He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, 

truelier, 
If C. 's as original, E. 's more peculiar; 
That he 's more of a man you might 

say of the one, 
Of the other he 's more of an Emer- 
son ; 
C. 's the Titan, as shaggy of mind as 

of limb, — 
E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and 

slim ; 
The one 's two thirds Norseman, the 

other half Greek, 
Where the one 's most abounding, the 

other 's to seek ; 
C.'s generals require to be seen in the 

mass, — 
E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the 

glass ; 
C. gives nature and God his own fits of 

the blues, 



i 4 o 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



And rims common-sense things with 

mystical hues, — 
E. sits in a mystery calm and intense, 
And looks coolly around him with sharp 

common sense ; 
C. shows you how every-day matters 

unite 
With the dim transdiurnal recesses of 

night, — 
While E., in a plain, preternatural way, 
Makes mysteries matters of mere every 

day ; 
C. draws all his characters quite a la 

Fuseh, — 
He don't sketch their bundles of mus- 
cles and thews illy, 
But he paints with a brush so untamed 

and profuse, 
They seem nothing but bundles of 

muscles and thews ; 
E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait 

and severe, 
And a colorless outline, but full, round, 

and clear ; — 
To the men he thinks worthy he frankly 

accords 
The design of a white marble statue in 

words. 
C. labors to get at the centre, and then 
Take a reckoning from there of his 

actions and men ; 
E. calmly assumes the said centre as 

granted, 
And, given himself, has whatever is 

wanted. 

11 He has imitators in scores, who omit 
No part of the man but his wisdom 

and wit, — 
Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of 

his brain, 
And when he has skimmed it once, 

skim it again ; 
If at all they resemble him, you may be 

sure it is 
Because their shoals mirror his mists 

and obscurities, 
As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven 

for a minute, 
While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected 

within it. 

" There comes , for instance ; to 

see him 's rare sport, 



Tread in Emerson's tracks with legt 

painfully short ; 
How he jumps, how he strains, and 

gets red in the face, 
To keep step with the mystagogue's 

natural pace ! 
He follows as close as a stick to a rocket. 
His fingers exploring the prophet's 

each pocket. 
Fie, for shame, brother bard ; with 

good fruit of your own, 
Can't you let Neighbor Emerson's or- 
chards alone ? 
Besides, 't is no use, you '11 not find 

e'en a core, — 
has picked up all the windfalls be- 
fore. 
They might strip every tree, and E. 

never would catch 'em, 
His Hesperides have no rude dragon 

to watch 'em ; 
When they send him a dishful, and 

ask him to try 'em, 
He never suspects how the sly rogues 

came by 'em ; 
He wonders why 't is there are none 

such his trees on, 
And thinks 'em the best he has tasted 

this season. 

" Yonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott 

stalks in a dream, 
And fancies himself in thy groves, Aca- 
deme, 
With the Parthenon nigh, and the 

olive-trees o'er him, 
And never a fact to perplex him or 

bore him, 
With a snug room at Plato's, when 

night comes, to walk to, 
And people from morning till midnight 

to talk to,^ 
And from midnight till morning, nor 

snore in their listening ; — 
So he muses, his face with the joy of 

it glistening, 
For his highest conceit of a happiest 

state is 
Where they 'd live upon acorns, and 

hear him talk gratis : 
And indeed, 1 believe, no man ever 

taiked better, — 
Each sentence hangs perfectly poised 

to a letter ; 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Mi 



He seems piling words, but there 's 
royal dust hid 

In the heart of each sky-piercing pyr- 
amid. 

While he talks he is great, but goes 
out like a taper, 

If you shut him up closely with pen, 
ink, and paper ; 

Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morn- 
ing till night, 

And he thinks he does wrong if he 
don't always write ; 

In this, as in all things, a lamb among 
men, 

He goes v to sure death when he goes 
to his pen. 

"Close behind him is Brownson, his 
mouth very full 

With attempting to gulp a Gregorian 
bull ; 

Who contrives, spite of that, to pour 
out as he goes 

A stream of transparent and forcible 
prose ; 

He shifts quite about, then proceeds to 
expound 

That 't is merely the earth, not himself, 
that turns round, 

And wishes it clearly impressed on your 
mind 

That the weathercock rules and not fol- 
lows the wind ; 

Proving first, then as deftly confuting 
each side, 

With no doctrine pleased that 's not 
somewhere denied, 

He lays the denier away on the shelf, 

And then — down beside him lies grave- 
ly himself. 

He 's the Salt River boatman, who al- 
ways stands willing 

To convey friend or foe without charg- 
ing a shilling, 

And so fond of the trip that, when 
leisure 's to spare, 

He '11 row himself up, if he can't get 
a fare. 

The worst of it is, that his logic *s so 
strong, 

That of two sides he commonly chooses 
the wrong : 

If there is only one, why, he '11 split it 
in two, 



And first pummel this half, then that, 

black and blue. 
That white 's white needs no proof, but 

it takes a deep fellow 
To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black 

is yellow. 
He offers the true faith to drink in a 

sieve, — 
When it reaches your lips there 's 

naught left to believe 
But a few silly-(syllo-, I mean,) -gisms 

that squat 'em 
Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud 

at the bottom. 

" There is Willis, all natty and jaunty 

and gay, 
Who says his best things in so foppish 

a way, 
With conceits and pet phrases so thick- 
ly o'erlaying 'em, 
That one hardly knows whether to 

thank him for saying 'em ; 
Over-ornament ruins both poem and 

prose, 
Just conceive of a Muse with a ring in 

her nose ! 
His prose had a natural grace of its own, 
And enough of it, too, if he 'd let it 

alone ; 
But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly 

gets tired, 
And is forced to forgive where he might 

have admired ; 
Yet whenever it slips away free and 

unlaced, 
It runs like a stream with a musical 

waste, 
And gurgles along with the liquidest 

sweep ; — 
'T is not deep as a river, but who 'd 

have it deep ? 
In a country where scarcely a village is 

found 
That has not its author sublime and 

profound, 
For some one to be slightly shoal is a 

duty, 
And Willis's shallowness makes half 

his beauty. 
His prose winds along with a blithe, 

gurgling error, 
And reflects all of Heaven it can see in 

its mirror. 



142 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



'T is a narrowish strip, but it is not an 

artifice, — 
*T is the true out-of-doors with its 

genuine hearty phiz ; 
It is Nature herself, and there 's some- 
thing in that, 
Since most brains reflect but the crown 

of a hat. 
No volume I know to read under a 

tree, 
More truly delicious than his A 1' Abri, 
With the shadows of leaves flowing 

over your book, 
Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a 

brook ; 
With June coming softly your shoulder 

to look over, 
Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of 

your book over, 
And Nature to criticise still as you 

read, — 
The page that bears that is a rare one 

indeed. 

" He 's so innate a cockney, that had 

he been born 
Where plain bare-skin 's the only full- 
dress that is worn, 
He 'd have given his own such an air 

that you 'd say 
'T had been made by a tailor to lounge 

in Broadway. 
His nature 's a glass of champagne 

with the foam on't, 
As tender as Fletcher, as witty as 

Beaumont ; 
So his best things are done in the flush 

of the moment, 
If he wait, all is spoiled ; he may stir 

it and shake it, 
But, the fixed air once gone, he can 

never remake it. 
He might be a marvel of easy delight- 
fulness, 
If he would not sometimes leave the r 

out of sprightfulness; 
And he ought to let Scripture alone — 

't is self-slaughter, 
For nobody likes inspiration-and-wa- 

ter. 
He 'd have been just the fellow to sup 

at the Mermaid, 
Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an 

eye to the barmaid, 



His wit running up as Canary ran 

down, — 
The topmost bright bubble on the 

wave of The Town. 

" Here comes Parker, the Orson of 

parsons, a man 
Whom the Church undertook to put 

under her ban 
(The Church ot'Socinus, I mean), — his 

opinions 
Being So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked 

the Socinians ; 
They believed — faith I 'm puzzled — 

I think I may call 
Their belief a believing in nothing at 

all, 
Or something of that sort ; I know they 

all went 
For a general union of total dissent : 
He went a step farther ; without cough 

or hem, 
He frankly avowed he believed not in 

them ; 
And, before he could be jumbled up or 

prevented, 
From their orthodox kind of dissent he 

dissented. 
There was heresy here, you perceive, 

for the right 
Of privately judging means simply that 

light 
Has been granted to me, for deciding 

on you ; 
And in happier times, before Atheism 

grew, 
The deed contained clauses for cooking 

you too. 
Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, 

yet our foot 
With the same wave is wet that mocked 

Xerxes and Knut ; 
And we all entertain a sincere private 

notion, 
That our Thus far I will have a great 

weight with the ocean. 
'T was so with our liberal Christians : 

they bore 
With sincerest conviciion their chairs 

to the shore ; 
They brandished their worn theological 

birches, 
Bade natural progress keep out of the 

Churches, 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



143 



And expected the lines they had drawn 

to prevail 
With the fast-rising tide to keep out of 

their pale ; 
They had formerly dammed the Pon- 
tifical See, 
And the same thing, they thought, 

would do nicely for P. ; 
But he turned up his nose at their mur- 
muring and shamming. 
And cared (shall I say ?) not a d for 

their damming ; 
So they first read him out of their 

church, and next minute 
Turned round and declared he had 

never been in it. 
But the ban was too small or the man 

was too big, 
For he recks not their bells, books, 

and candles a fig 
(He don't look like a man who would 

stay treated shabbily, 
Sophroniscus' son's head o'er the fea- 
tures of Rabelais) ; — 
He bangs and beth wacks them, — their 

backs he salutes 
With the whole tree of knowledge torn 

up by the roots ; 
His sermons with satire are plenteously 

verjuiced, 
And he talks in one breath of Confut- 

zee, Cass, Zerduscht, 
Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, 

Strap, Dathan, 
Cush, Pitt (not the bottomless, that 

he 's no faith in), 
Pan, Pillicock, Shakespeare, Paul, 

Toots, Monsieur Tonson, 
Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben 

Jon son, 
Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father 

Paul, Judah Monis, 
Musseus, Muretus, hem^ — /x Scor- 

pionis, 
Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac — Mac — 

ah ! Machiavelli, 
Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, 

Say, Ganganelli, 
Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O, 
(See the Memoirs of Sully,) to irav, the 

great toe 
Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass 
For that of Jew Peter by good Rom- 
ish brass, 



(You may add for yourselves, for I find 
it a bore, 

All the names you have ever, or not, 
heard before, 

And when you 've done that — why, 
invent a few more.) 

His hearers can't tell you on Sunday 
beforehand, 

If in that day's discourse they '11 be 
Bibled or Koraned, 

For he 's seized the idea (by his mar- 
tyrdom fired) 

That all men (not orthodox) may be 
inspired ; 

Yet though wisdom profane with his 
creed he may weave in, 

He makes it quite clear what he doesn't 
believe in, 

While some, who decry him, think all 
Kingdom Come 

Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of 
Hum, 

Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a 
crumb 

Would be left, if we did n't keep care- 
fully mum, 

And, to make a clean breast, that 't is 
perfectly plain 

That all kinds of wisdom are some- 
what profane ; 

Now P.'s creed than this may be lighter 
or darker 

But in one thing, 't is clear, he has faith, 
namely — Parker ; 

And this is what makes him the crowd- 
drawing preacher, 

There 's a background of god to each 
hard-working feature, 

Every word that he speaks has been 
fierily furnaced 

In the blast of a life that has struggled 
in earnest : 

There he stands, looking more like a 
ploughman than priest, 

If not dreadfully awkward, not grace- 
ful at least, 

His gestures all downright and same, 
if you will, 

As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing 
a drill, 

But his periods fall on you, stroke after 
stroke, 

Like the blows of a lumberer felling an 
oak, 



144 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



You forget the man wholly, you 're 
thankful to meet 

With a preacher who smacks of the 
field and the street, 

And to hear, you 're not over-particular 
whence. 

Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Lati- 
mer's sense. 

"There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, 

and as dignifie'd, 
As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never 

is ignified, 
Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' 

nights 
With a semblance of flame by the chill 

Northern Lights. 
He may rank (Griswold says so) first 

bard of your nation 
(There 's no doubt that he stands in 

supreme ice-olation), 
Your topmost Parnassus he may set 

his heel on, 
But no warm applauses come, peal fol- 
lowing peal on, — 
He 's too smooth and too polished to 

hang any zeal on : 
Unqualified merits, I '11 grant, if you 

choose, he has 'em, 
But he lacks the one merit of kindling 

enthusiasm ; 
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my 

soul, 
Like being stirred up with the very 

North Pole. 

" He is very nice reading in summer, 

but inter 
Nos, we don't want extra freezing in 

winter ; 
Take him up in the depth of July, my 

advice is, 
When you feel an Egyptian devotion to 

ices. 
But deduct all you can, there 's enough 

that 's right good in him, 
He has a true soul for field, river, and 

wood in him ; 
And his heart, in the midst of brick 

walls, or where'er it is, 
Glows, softens, and thrills with the 

tenderest charities — 
To you mortals that delve in this trade- 
ridden planet? 



No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their 

limestone and granite. 
If you 're one who in loco (add foco 

here) desipis, 
You will get of his outermost heart (as I 

guess) a piece ; 
But you 'd get deeper down if you came 

as a precipice, 
And would break the last seal of its in- 

wardest fountain, 
If you only could palm yourself off for 

a mountain. 
Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as dis- 
cerning, 
Some scholar who 's hourly expecting 

his learning, 
Calls B. the American Wordsworth ; 

but Wordsworth 
Is worth near as much as your whole 

tuneful herd 's worth. 
No, don't be absurd, he 's an excellent 

Bryant ; 
But, my friends, you '11 endanger the 

life of your client, 
By attempting to stretch him up into a 

giant : 
If you choose to compare him, I think 

there are two per- 
-sons fit for a parallel — Thomson and 

Cowper ; * 
I don't mean exactly, — there's some- 
thing of each, 
There's IV s love of nature, C.'s pen- 
chant to preach ; 
Just mix up their minds so that C.'s 

spice of craziness 
Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn 

for laziness, 
And it gives you a brain cool, quite 

frictionless, quiet, 
Whose internal police nips the buds of 

all riot, — 
A brain like a permanent strait-jacket 

put on 
The heart which strives vainly to burst 

off a button, — 
A brain which, without being slow or 

mechanic, 

* To demonstrate quickly and easily how per- 
versely absurd 't is to sound this name Cow- 
per, 
As people in general call him named super, 
I remark that he rhymes it himself with horse- 
trooper. 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



*45 



Does more than a larger less drilled, 

more volcanic ; 
He 's a Cowper condensed, with no 

craziness bitten, 
And the advantage that Wordsworth 

before him has written. 

" But, my dear little bardlings, don't 

prick up your ears 
Nor suppose I would rank you and 

Bryant as peers ; 
If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean 

to say 
There is nothing in that which is grand 

in its, way ; 
He is almost the one of your poets that 

knows 
How much grace, strength, and dignity 

lie in Repose; 
if he sometimes fall short, he is too 

wise to mar 
Hio thought's modest fulness by going 

too far ; 
'T would be well if your authors should 

all make a trial 
Of what virtue there is in severe self- 
denial, 
And measure their writings by Hesiod's 

staff, 
Which teaches that all has less value 

than halt. 

" There is Whittier, whose swelling 
and vehement heart 

Strains the strait-breasted drab of the 
Quaker apart, 

And reveals the live Man, still supreme 
and erect, 

Underneath the bemummying wrappers 
of sect ; 

There was ne'er a man born who had 
more of the swing 

Of the true lyric bard and all that kind 
of thing; 

And his failures arise (though perhaps 
he don't know it) 

From the very same cause that has 
made him a poet, — 

A fervor of mind which knows no sep- 
aration 

'Twixt simple excitement and pure in- 
spiration, 

As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred 
from not knowing 



If 'twere I or mere wind through her 
tripod was blowing ; 

Let his mind once get head in its fa- 
vorite direction 

And the torrent of verse bursts the 
dams of reflection, 

While, borne with the rush of the metre 
along, 

The poet may chance to go right or go 
wrong, 

Content with the whirl and delirium of 
song; 

Then his grammar's not always cor- 
rect, nor his rhymes, 

And he 's prone to repeat his own 
lyrics sometimes, 

Not his best, though, for those are 
struck off at white-heats 

When the heart in his breast like a 
trip-hammer beats, 

And can ne 'er be repeated again any 
more 

Than they could have been carefully 
plotted before : 

Like old what's-his-name there at the 
battle of Hastings 

(Who, however, gave more than mere 
rhythmical bastings), 

Our Quaker leads off metaphorical 
fights 

For reform and whatever they call hu- 
man rights, 

Both singing and striking in front of the 
war 

And hitting his foes with the mallet of 
Thor ; 

Anne haec, one exclaims, on behold- 
ing his knocks, 

Vestisfilii tui, O leather-clad Fox ? 

Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid 
din, 

Preaching brotherly love and then driv- 
ing it in 

To the brain of the tough old Goliah of 
sin, 

With the smoothest of pebbles from 
Castaly's spring 

Impressed on his hard moral sense 
with a sling ? 

" All honor and praise to the right- 
hearted bard 
Who was true to The Voice when such 
service was hard 



i 4 6 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Who himself was so free he dared sing 

for the slave 
When to look but a protest in silence 

was brave ; 
All honor and praise to the women and 

men 
Who spoke out for the dumb and the 

down-trodden then ! 
I need not to name them, already for 

each 
I see History preparing the statue and 

niche ; 
They were harsh, but shall you be so 

shocked at hard words 
Who have beaten your pruning-hooks 

up into swords, 
Whose rewards and hurrahs men are 

surer to gain 
By the reaping of men and of women 

than grain ? 
Why should you stand aghast at their 

fierce wordy war, if 
You scalp one another for Bank or for 

Tariff? 
Your calling them cut -throats and 

knaves all day long 
Don't prove that the use of hard 

language is wrong ; 
While the World's heart beats quicker 

to think of such men 
As signed Tyranny's doom with a 

bloody steel-pen, 
While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless 

orators fright one 
With hints at Harmodius and Aristo- 

geiton, 
You need not look shy at your sisters 

and brothers 
Who stab with sharp words for the free- 
dom of others ; — 
No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the 

loyal and true 
Who, for sake of the many, dared stand 

with the few, 
Not of blood-spattered laurel for ene- 
mies braved, 
But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for 

citizers saved ! 

"Here comes Dana, abstractedly 

loitering along, 
Involved in a paulo-post future of song, 
Who '11 be going to write what '11 never 

be written 



Till the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives 
him the mitten, — 

Who is so well aware of how things 
should be done, 

That his own works displease him be- 
fore they 're begun, — 

Who so well all that makes up good 
poetry knows, 

That the best of his poems is written 
in prose ; 

All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus 
waiting, 

He was booted and spurred, but he 
loitered debating ; 

In a very grave question his soul was 
immersed, — 

Which foot in the stirrup he ought to 
put first ; 

And, while this point and that he judi- 
cially dwelt on, 

He, somehow or other, had written 
Paul Felton, 

Whose beauties or faults, whichsoever 
you see there, 

You '11 allow only genius could hit 
upon either. 

That he once was the Idle Man none 
will deplore, 

But I fear he will never be anything 
more ; 

The ocean of song heaves and glitters 
before him, 

The depth and the vastness and long- 
ing sweep o'er him, 

He knows every breaker and shoal on 
the chart, 

HehastheCoastPilotandsoonbyheart, 

Yet he spends his whole life, like the 
man in the fable, 

In learning to swim on his library- 
table. 

"There swaggers John Neal, who 
has wasted in Maine 

The sinews and chords of his pugilist 
brain, 

Who might have been poet, but that, in 
its stead, he 

Preferred to believe that he was so al- 
ready ; 

Too hasty to wait till Art's ripe fruit 
should drop, 

He must pelt down an unripe and 
colicky crop ; 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



H7 



Who took to the law, and had this 

sterling plea for it, 
It required him to quarrel, and paid 

him a fee for it ; 
A man who 's made less than he might 

have, because 
He always has thought himself more 

than he was, — 
Who, with very good natural gifts as a 

bard, 
Broke the strings of his lyre out by 

striking too hard, 
And cracked half the notes of a truly 

fine voice, 
Because song drew less instant atten- 
tion' than noise. 
Ah, men do not know how much 

strength is in poise, 
That he goes the farthest who goes far 

enough, 
And that all beyond that is just bother 

and stuff. 
No vain man matures, he makes too 

much new wood ; 
His blooms are too thick for the fruit 

to be good ; 
*T is the modest man ripens, 't is he 

that achieves, 
Just what 's needed of sunshine and 

shade he receives ; 
Grapes, to mellow, require the cool 

dark of their leaves ; 
Neal wants balance ; he throws his 

mind always too far, 
Whisking out flocks of comets, but 

never a star ; 
He has so much muscle, and loves so 

to show it, 
That he strips himself naked to prove 

he 's a poet, 
And, to show he could leap Art's wide 

ditch, if he tried, 
Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge 

t'other side. 
He has strength, but there 's nothing 

about him in keeping ; 
One gets surelier onward by walking 

than leaping ; 
He has used his own sinews himself to 

distress, 
And had done vastly more had he done 

vastly less ; 
In letters, too soon is as bad as too late ; 
Could he only have waited he might 

have been great ; 



But he plumped into Helicon up to the 

waist, 
And muddied the stream ere he took 

his first taste. 

"There is Hawthorne, with genius 
so shrinking and rare 

That you hardly at first see the strength 
that is there ; 

A frame so robust, with a nature so 
sweet, 

So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet, 

Is worth a descent from Olympus to 
meet ; 

*T is as if a rough oak that for ages had 
stood, 

With his gnarled bony branches like 
ribs of the wood, 

Should bloom, after cycles of struggle 
and scathe, 

With a single anemone trembly and 
rathe ; 

His strength is so tender, his wildness 
so meek, 

That a suitable parallel sets one to 
seek, — 

He 's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puri- 
tan Tieck ; 

When nature was shaping him, clay 
was not granted 

For making so full-sized a man as she 
wanted, 

So, to fill out her model, a little she 
spared 

From some finer-grained stuff for a 
woman prepared, 

And she could not have hit a more ex- 
cellent plan 

For making him fully and perfectly 
man. 

The success of her scheme gave her so 
much delight, 

That she tried it again, shortly after, in 
D wight ; 

Only, while she was kneading and shap- 
ing the clay, 

She sang to her work in her sweet child- 
ish way, 

And found, when she 'd put the last 
touch to his soul, 

That the music had somehow got mixed 
with the whole. 

" Here 's Cooper, who 's written six 
volumes to show 



i 4 8 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



He 's as good as a lord : well, let 's 

grant that he 's so ; 
If a person prefer that description of 

praise, 
Why, a coronet 's certainly cheaper 

than bays*; 
But need take no pains to convince us 

he 's not 
(As his enemies say) the American 

Scott. 
Choose any twelve men, and let C. 

read aloud 
That one of his novels of which he 's 

most proud, 
And I 'd lay any bet that, without ever 

quitting 
Their box, they 'd be all, to a man, for 

acquitting. 
He has drawn you onecharacter, though, 

that is new, 
One wildflower he 's plucked that is 

wet with the dew 
Of this fresh Western world, and, the 

thing not to mince, 
He has done naught but copy it ill ever 

since ; 
His Indians, with proper respect be it 

said, 
Are just Natty Bumpo, daubed over 

with red, 
And his very Long Toms are the same 

useful Nat, 
Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'- 
wester hat 
(Though once in a Coffin, a good 

chance was found 
To have slipped the old fellow away 

underground). 
All his other men-figures are clothes 

upon sticks, 
The derniere chemise of a man in a 

fix 
(As a captain besieged, when his garri- 
son 's small, 
Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o'er 

the wall) ; 
And the women he draws from one 

model don't vary, 
All sappy as maples and flat as a prai- 
rie. 
When a character 's wanted, he goes to 

the task 
As a cooper would do in composing a 

cask ; 



He picks out the staves, of their quali- 
ties heedful, 

Just hoops them together as tight as is 
needful, 

And, if the best fortune should crown 
the attempt, he 

Has made at the most something wood- 
en and empty. 

" Don't suppose I would underrate 
Cooper's abilities ; 

If I thought you 'd do that, I should 
feel very ill at ease ; 

The men who have given to one char- 
acter life 

And objective existence are not very 
rife ; 

You may number them all, both prose- 
writers and singers, 

Without overrunning the bounds of 
your fingers, 

And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker 

Than Adams, the parson or Primrose 
the vicar. 

" There is one thing in Cooper I 
like, too, and that is 

That on manners he lectures his coun- 
trymen gratis ; 

Not precisely so either, because, for a 
rarity, 

He is paid for his tickets in unpopu- 
larity. 

Now he may overcharge his American 
pictures, 

But you '11 grant there ]s a good deal 
of truth in his strictures : 

And I honor the man who is willing to 
sink 

Half his present repute for the freedom 
to think, 

And, when he has thought, be his 
cause strong or weak, 

Will risk t'other half for the freedom 
to speak, 

Caring naught for what vengeance the 
mob has in store, 

Let that mob be the upper ten thou- 
sand or lower. 

" There are truths you Americans 
need to be told, 
And it never '11 refute them to swagger 
and scold ; 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



H9 



John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in 

choler 
At your aptness for trade, says you 

worship the dollar ; 
But to scorn such eye-dollar-try 's what 

very few do, 
And John goes to that church as often 

as you do. 
No matter what John says, don't try 

to outcrow him, 
'T is enough to go quietly on and out- 
grow him ; 
Like most fathers, Bull hates to see 

Number One 
Displacing himself in the mind of his 

son, 
And detests the same faults in himself 

he 'd neglected 
When he sees them again in his child's 

glass reflected ; 
To love one another you 're too like bv 

half; 
If he is a bull, you 're a pretty stout 

calf, 
And tear your own pasture for naught 

but to show 
What a nice pair of horns you 're be- 
ginning to grow. 

" There are one or two things I 

should just like to hint, 
For you don't often get the truth told 

you in print ; 
The most of you (this is what strikes 

all beholders) 
Have a mental and physical stoop in 

the shoulders ; 
Though you ought to be free as the 

winds and the waves, 
You 've the gait and the manners of 

runaway slaves ; 
Though you brag of your New World, 

you don't half believe in it, 
And as much of the Old as is possible 

weave in it ; 
Your goddess of freedom, a tight, bux- 
om girl, 
With lips like a cherry and teeth like 

a pearl, 
With eyes bold as Here's, and hair 

floating free, 
And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, 
Who can sing at a husking or romp at 

a shearing, 



Who can trip through the forests alone 

without fearing, 
Who can drive home the cows with a 

song through the grass, 
Keeps glancing aside into Europe's 

cracked glass, 
Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches 

up her lithe waist, 
And makes herself wretched with 

transmarine taste ; 
She loses her fresh country charm when 

she takes 
Any mirror except her own rivers and 

lakes. 



" You steal Englishmen's books and 
think Englishmen's thought, 

With their salt on her tail your wild 
eagle is caught ; 

Your literature suits its each whisper 
and motion 

To what will be thought of it over the 
ocean ; 

The cast clothes of Europe your states- 
manship tries 

And mumbles again the old blarneys 
and lies ; — 

Forget Europe wholly, your veins 
throb with blood, 

To which the dull current in hers is 
but mud ; 

Let her sneer, let her say your experi- 
ment fails, 

In her voice there 's a tremble e'en 
now while she rails, 

And your shore will soon be in the na- 
ture of things 

Covered thick with gilt driftwood of 
runaway kings, 

Where alone, as it were in a Longfel- 
low's Waif, 

Her fugitive pieces will find themselves 
safe. 

O my friends, thank your God, if you 
have one, that he 

'Twixt the Old World and you set the 
gulf of a sea ; 

Be strong-backed, brown-handed, up- 
right as your pines, 

By the scale of a hemisphere shape 
your designs. 

Be true to yourselves and this new nine- 
teenth age, 



ISO 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



As a statue by Powers, or a picture by 
Page, 

Plough, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, 
all things make new, 

To your own New- World instincts con- 
trive to be true, 

Keep your ears open wide to the Fu- 
ture's first call. 

Be whatever you will,, but yourselves 
first of all, 

Stand fronting the dawn on Toil's 
heaven-scaling peaks, 

And become my new race of more prac- 
tical Greeks. — 

Hem ! your likeness at present, I shud- 
der to tell o't, 

Is that you have your slaves, and the 
Greek had his helot." 

Here a gentleman present, who had 

in his attic 
More pepper than brains, shrieked, — 

"The man 's a fanatic, 
I'raa capital tailor with warm tar and 

feathers, 
And will make him a suit that '11 serve 

in all weathers ; 
But we Ml argue the point first, I 'm 

willing to reason 't, 
Palaver before condemnation 's but 

decent ; 
So, through my humble person, Hu- 
manity begs 
Of the friends of true freedom a loan 

of bad eggs." 
But Apollo let one such a look of his 

show forth 
As when r\'U vvkti €oiku>£, and so forth, 
And the gentleman somehow slunk out 

of the way, 
But, as he was going, gained courage 

to say, — 
" At slavery in the abstract my whole 

soul rebels, 
I am as strongly opposed to't as any 

one else." 
"Ay, no doubt, but whenever I 've 

happened to meet 
With a wrong or a crime, it is always 

concrete," 
Answered Phoebus severely ; then turn- 
ing to us, 
"The mistake of such fellows as just 

made the fuss 



Is only in taking a great busy nation 

For a part of their pitiful cotton-plan- 
tation. — 

But there comes Miranda, Zeus ! where 
shall I flee to ? 

She has such a penchant for bothering 
me too ! 

She always keeps asking if I don't ob- 
serve a 

Particular likeness 'twixt her and 
Minerva ; 

She tells me my efforts in verse are 
quite clever ; — 

She 's been travelling now, and will be 
worse than ever ; 

One would think, though, a sharp- 
sighted noter she 'd be 

Of all that 's worth mentioning ove» 
the sea, 

For a woman must surely see well, if 
she try, 

The whole of whose being 's a capital I : 

She will take an old notion, and make 
it her own, 

By saying it o'er in her Sibylline tone, 

Or persuade you 't is something tre- 
mendously deep, 

By repeating it so as to put you to 
sleep ; 

And she well may defy any mortal to 
see through it, 

When once she has mixed up her in- 
finite me through it. 

There is one thing she owns in her 
own single right, 

It is native and genuine — namely, her 
spite : 

Though, when acting as censor, she 
privately blows 

A censer of vanity 'neath her own nose." 

Here Miranda came up, and said, 
" Phcebus ! you know 

That the infinite Soul has its infinite 
woe, 

As I ought to know, having lived cheek 
by jowl, 

Since the day I was born, with the In- 
finite Soul ; 

I myself introduced, I myself, I alone, 

To my Land's better life authors solely 
my own, 

Who the sad heart of earth on their 
shoulders have taken, 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



I 
IS* 



Whose works sound a depth by Life's 

quiet unshaken, 
Such as Shakespeare, for instance, the 

Bible, and Bacon, 
Not to mention my own works ; Time 's 

nadir is fleet, 
And, as for myself, I 'm quite out of 

conceit — " 

" Quite out of conceit ! I 'm en- 
chanted to hear it," 

Cried Apollo aside. "Who 'd have 
thought she was near it ? 

To be sure, one is apt to exhaust those 
commodities 

He uses too fast, yet in this case as 
odd v it is 

As if Neptune should say to his turbots 
and whitings, 

*I 'm as much out of salt as Miranda's 
own writings ' 

(Which, as she in her own happy man- 
ner has said, 

Sound a depth, for 't is on* 1 " f the func- 
tions of lead). 

She often has asked me if I could not 
find 

A place somewhere near me that 
suited her mind ; 

I know but a single one vacant, which 
she, 

With her rare talent that way, would fit 
to a T. 

And it would not imply any pause or 
cessation 

In the work she esteems her peculiar 
vocation, — 

She may enter on duty to-day, if she 
chooses, 

And remain Tiring-woman for life to 
the Muses." 

(Miranda meanwhile has succeeded 

in driving 
Up into a corner, in spite of their 

striving, 
A small flock of terrified victims, and 

there, 
With an I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Uni- 

verse air 
And a tone which, at least to my fancy, 

appears 
Not so much to be entering as boxing 

your ears, 



Is unfolding a tale (of herself, I sur- 
mise), 

For 't is dotted as thick as a peacock's 
with l's.) 

Apropos of Miranda, I '11 rest on my 
oars 

And drift through a trifling digression 
on bores, 

For, though not wearing ear-rings in 
more maj orum % 

Our ears are kept bored just as if we 
still wore 'em. 

There was one feudal custom worth 
keeping, at least, 

Roasted bores made a part of each well- 
ordered feast, 

And of all quiet pleasures the very ne 
plus 

Was in hunting wild bores as the tame 
ones hunt us. 

Archaeologians, I know, who have per- 
sonal fears 

Of this wise application of hounds and 
of spears, 

Have tried to make out, with a zeal 
more than wonted, 

'T was a kind of wild swine that our 
ancestors hunted ; 

But I '11 never believe that the age 
which has strewn 

Europe o'er with cathedrals, and other- 
wise shown 

That it knew what was what, could by 
chance not have known 

(Spending, too, its chief time with its 
buff on, no doubt), 

Which beast 't would improve the world 
most to thin out. 

I divide bores myself, in the manner 
of rifles, 

Into two great divisions, regardless of 
trifles ; — 

There 's your smooth-bore and screw- 
bore, who do much vary 

In the weight of cold lead they respec- 
tively carry. 

The smooth-bore is one in whose es- 
sence the mind 

Not a corner nor cranny to cling by can 
find; > 

You feel as in nightmares sometimes, 
when you slip 

Down a steep slated roof, where there's 
nothing to grip ; 



'52 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



You slide and you slide, the blank hor- 
ror increases, — 

You had rather by far be at once 
smashed to pieces ; 

You fancy a whirlpool below white and 
frothing, 

And finally drop off and light upon — 
nothing. 

The screw-bore has twists in him, faint 
predilections 

For going just wrong in the tritest di- 
rections ; 

When he 's wrong he is flat, when he 's 
right he can't show it, 

He '11 tell you what Snooks said about 
the new poet,* 

Or how Fogrum was outraged by Ten- 
nyson's Princess ; 

He has spent all his spare time and in- 
tellect since his 

Birth in perusing, on each art and 
science, 

Just the books in which no one puts 
any reliance, 

And though nemo, we 're told, horis 
omnibus sapjt, 

The rule will not fit him, however you 
shape it, 

For he has a perennial foison of sappi- 
ness ; 

He has just enough force to spoil half 
your day's happiness, 

And to make him a sort of mosquito to 
be with, 

But just not enough to dispute or agree 
with. 

These sketches I made (not to be too 

explicit) 
From two honest fellows who made me 

a visit, 
And broke, like the tale of the Bear 

and the Fiddle, 
My reflections on Halleck short off 

by the middle ; 
I shall not now go into the subject more 

deeply, 
For I notice that some of my readers 

look sleep'ly ; 

* (If you call Snooks an owl, he will show 
by his looks 
That he's morally certain you 're jealous 
of Snooks.) 



I will barely remark that, 'mongst civi- 
lized nations, 

There 's none that displays more ex- 
emplary patience 

Under all sorts of boring, at all sorts 
of hours, 

From all sorts of desperate persons, 
than ours. 

Not to speak of our papers, our State 
legislatures, 

And other such trials for sensitive na- 
tures, 

Just look for a»moment at Congress, — 
appalled, 

My fancy shrinks back from the phan- 
tom it called ; 

Why, there 's scarcely a member un- 
worthy to frown 

'Neath what Fourier nicknames the 
Boreal crown ; 

Only think what that infinite bore- 
pow'r could do 

If applied with a utilitarian view ; 

Suppose, for example, we shipped it 
with care 

To Sahara's great desert and let it bore 
there ; 

If they held one short session and did 
nothing else, 

They 'd fill the whole waste with Arte- 
sian wells. 

But 'tis time now with pen phonograph- 
ic to follow 

Through some more of his sketches 
our laughing Apollo : — 

" There comes Harry Franco, and, 

as he draws near, 
You find that's a smile which you took 

for a sneer; 
One half of him contradicts t'other ; 

his wont 
Is to say very sharp things and do very 

blunt ; 
His manner 's as hard as his feelings 

are tender, 
And a sortie he '11 make when he means 

to surrender ; 
He 's in joke half the time when he 

seems to be sternest, 
When he seems to be joking, be sure 

he 's in earnest ; 
He has common sense in a way that 's 

uncommon, 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



'S3 



Hates humbug and eant, loves his 

friends like a woman, 
Builds his dislikes of cards and his 

friendships of oak, 
Loves a prejudice better than aught 

but a joke, 
Is half upright Quaker, half down- 
right Come-outer, 
Loves Freedom too well to go stark 

mad about her, 
Quite artless himself is a lover of Art, 
Shuts you out. of his secrets and into 

his heart, 
And though not a poet, yet all must 

admire 
In his letters of Pinto his skill on the 

liar. 

" There comes Poe, with his raven, 
like Barnaby Rudge, 

Three fifths of him genius and two 
fifths sheer fudge, 

Who talks like a book of lambs and 
pentameters, 

In a way to make people of common 
sense damn metres, 

Who has written some things quite the 
best of their kind, 

But the heart somehow seems all 
squeezed out by the mind, 

Who — but hey-day ! What 's this ? 
Messieurs Mathews and Poe, 

You must n't fling mud-balls at Long- 
fellow so, 

Does it make a man worse that his 
character 's such 

As to make his friends love him (as 
you think) too much ? 

Why, there is not a bard at this mo- 
ment alive 

More willing than he that his fellows 
should thrive ; 

While you are abusing him thus, even 
now 

He would help either one of you out of 
a slough ', 

You may say that he 's smooth and all 
that till you 're hoarse, 

But remember that elegance also is 
force ; 

After polishing granite as much as you 
will, 

The heart keeps its tough old persist- 
ency still ; 



Deduct all you can that still keeps you 
at bay, — 

Why, he '11 live till men weary of Col- 
lins and Gray. 

I 'm not over-fond of Greek metres in 
English, 

To me rhyme 's a gain, so it be not too 
jinglish, 

And your modern hexameter verses are 
no more 

Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope 
is like Homer ; 

As the roar of the sea to the coo of a 
pigeon is, 

So, compared to your moderns, sounds 
old Melesigenes ; 

I maybe too partial, the reason, per- 
haps, o't is 

That I 've heard the old blind man re- 
cite his own rhapsodies, 

And my ear with that music impreg- 
nate may be, 

Like the poor exiled shell with the soul 
of the sea, 

Or as one can't bear Strauss when his 
nature is cloven 

To its deeps within deeps by the stroke 
of Beethoven ; 

But, set that aside, and 'tis truth that I 
speak, 

Had Theocritus written in English, not 
_ Greek, 

I believe that his exquisite sense would 
scarce change a line 

In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastor- 
al Evangeline. 

That 's not ancient nor modern, its 
place is apart 

Where time has no sway, in the realm 
of pure Art, 

*T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's 
hubbub and strife 

As quiet and chaste as the author's own 
life. 

" There comes Philothea, her face 

all aglow, 
She has just been dividing some poor 

creature's woe, 
And can't tell which pleases her most, 

to relieve 
Hiswant, orhisstorytohearand believe; 
No doubt against many deep griefs she 

prevails, 



iS4 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



For her ear is the refuge of destitute 

tales ; 
She knows well that silence is sorrow's 

best food, 
And that talking draws off from the 

heart its black blood, 
So she '11 listen with patience and let 

you unfold 
Your bundle of rags as 't were pure cloth 

of gold, 
Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon 

as she 's touched it, 
And (to borrow a phrase from the 

nursery) muched\\. ; 
She has such a musical taste, she will go 
Any distance to hear one who draws a 

long bow ; 
She will swallow a wonder uy mere 

might and main, 
And thinks it geometry's fault if she 's 

fain 
To consider things flat, inasmuch as 

they're plain ; 
Facts with her are accomplished, as 

Frenchmen would say, — 
They will prove all she wishes them 

to — either way, 
And, as fact lies on this side or that, 

we must try, 
If we 're seeking the truth, to find 

where it don't lie ; 
Iwastellingheronceof amarvellous aloe 
That for thousands of years had looked 

spindling and sallow, 
And, though nursed by the fruitfullest 

powers of mud, 
Had never vouchsafed e'en so much as 

a bud, 
Till its owner remarked (as a sailor, 

you know, 
Often will in a calm) that it never 

would blow, 
For he wished to exhibit the plant, and 

designed 
That its blowing should help him in 

raising the wind ; 
At last it was told him that if he should 

water 
Its roots with the blood of his unmarried 

daughter 
(Who was born, as her mother, a Cal- 

vinist, said, 
With William Law's serious caul on 

her head), 



It would blow as the obstinate breeze 

did when by a 
Like decree of her father died Iphige- 

nia ; 
At first he declared he himself would 

be blowed 
Ere his conscience with such a foul 

crime he would load, 
But the thought, coming oft, grew less 

dark than before, 
And he mused, as each creditor knocked 

at his door, 
If this were but done they would dun 

me no more ; 
I told Philothea his struggles and 

doubts, 
And how he considered the ins and 

the outs 
Of the visions he had, and the dreadful 

dyspepsy, 
How he went to the seer that lives at 

Po'keepsie, 
How the seer advised him to sleep on 

it first 
And to read his big volume in case of 

the worst, 
And further advised he should pay him 

five dollars 
For writing f^urn, f£?um t on his wrist- 
bands and collars ; 
Three years and ten days these dark 

words he had studied 
When the daughter was missed, and 

the aloe had budded ; 
I told how he watched it grow large 

and more large, 
And wondered how much for the show 

he should charge, — 
She had listened with utter indifference 

to this, till 
I told how it bloomed, and discharging 

its pistil, 
With an aim the Eumenides dictated, 

shot 
The botanical filicide dead on the 

spot ; 
It had blown, but he reaped not his 

horrible gains, 
For it blew with such force as to blow 

out his brains, 
And the crime was blown also, be- 
cause on the wad, 
Which was paper, was writ * Visitation 

of God,' 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



155 



As well as a thrilling account of the 

deed 
Which the coroner kindly allowed me 

to read. 

" Well, my friend took this story up 

just, to be sure, 
As one might a poor foundling that 's 

laid at one's door ; 
She combed it and washed it and 

clothed it and fed it, 
And as if 't were her own child most 

tenderly bred it, 
Laid the scene (of the legend, I mean) 

far away a- 
-mong the green vales underneath 

Himalaya. 
And by artist-like touches, laid on 

here and there, 
Made the whole thing so touching, I 

frankly declare 
I have read it all thrice, and, perhaps 

I am weak, 
But I found every time there were tears 

on my cheek. 

" The pole, science tells us, the 

magnet controls, 
But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, 
And folks with a mission that nobody 

knows, 
Throng thickly about her as bees round 

a rose ; 
She can fill up the carets in such, make 

their scope 
Converge to some focus of rational 

hope, 
And, with sympathies fresh as the 

morning, their gall 
Can transmute into honey, — but this 

is not all ; 
Not only for those she has solace, O, 

say, 
Vice's desperate nursling adrift in 

Broadway, 
Who clingest, with all that is left of 

thee human, 
To the last slender spar from the wreck 

of the woman. 
Hast thou not found one shore where 

those tired drooping feet 
Could reach firm mother-earth, one full 

heart on whose beat 
The soothed head in silence reposing 

could hear 



The chimes of far childhood throb back 

on the ear ? 
Ah, there 's many a beam from the 

fountain of day 
That, to reach us unclouded, must pass, 

on its way, 
Through the soul of a woman, and hers 

is wide ope 
To the influence of Heaven as the blue 

eyes of Hope ; 
Yes, a great heart is hers, one that 

dares to go in 
To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys 

of sin, 
And to bring into each, or to find there, 

some line 
Of the never completely out-trampled 

divine ; 
If her heart at high floods swamps her 

brain now and then, 
'T is but richer for that when the tide 

ebbs agen, 
As, after old Nile has subsided, his 

plain 
Overflows with a second broad deluge 

of grain; 
What a wealth would it bring to the 

narrow and sour 
Could they be as a Child but for one 

little hour ! 

" What ! Irving ? thrice welcome, 

warm heart and fine brain, 
You bring back the happiest spirit from 

Spain, 
And the gravest sweet humor, that 

ever were there 
Since Cervantes met death in his gen- 
tle despair ; 
Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look 

so beseeching, — 
I sha' n't run directly against my own 

preaching, 
And, having just laughed at their 

Raphaels and Dantes, 
Go to setting you up beside matchless 

Cervantes ; 
But allow me to speak what I honestly 

feel, — 
To a true poet-heart add the fun of 

Dick Steele, 
Throw in all of Addison, minus the 

chill, 
With the whole of that partnership's 

stock and good-will, 



i 5 6 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, 
as a spell, 

The fine old English Gentleman, sim- 
mer it well, 

Sweeten just to your own private lik- 
ing, then strain, 

That only the finest and clearest re- 
main, 

Let it stand out of doors till a soul it 
receives 

From the warm lazy sun loitering down 
through green leaves, 

And you '11 find a choice nature, not 
wholly deserving 

A name either Englisn or Yankee, — 
just Irving. 

" There goes, — but stet nominis 

umbra, — his name 
You '11 be glad enough, some day or 

other, to claim, 
And will all crowd about him and swear 

that you knew him 
If some English hack-critic should 

chance to review him 
The old porcos ante ne proj iciatis 
Margaritas, for him you have veri- 
fied gratis ; 
What matters his name ? Why, it may 

be Sylvester, 
Judd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or 

Nestor, 
For aught / know or care ; 't is enough 

that I look 
On the author of ' Margaret,' the first 

Yankee book 
With the soul of Down East in't, and 

things farther East, 
As far as the threshold of morning, at 

least, 
Where awaits the fair dawn of the 

simple and true, 
Of the day that comes slowly to make 

all things new. 
'T has a smack of pine woods, of bare 

field and bleak hill, 
Such as only the breed of the May- 
flower could till ; 
The Puritan 's shown in it, tough to the 

core, 
Such as prayed, smiting Agag on red 

Marston Moor ; 
With an unwilling humor, half choked 

by the drouth 



In brown hollows about the inhospita- 
ble mouth ; 
With a soul full of poetry, though it 

has qualms 
About finding a happiness out of the 

Psalms ; 
Full of tenderness, too, though it 

shrinks in the dark, 
Hamadryad-like, under the coarse, 

shaggy bark ; 
That sees visions, knows wrestlings of 

God with the Will, 
And has its own Sinais and thunder- 

ings still." 

Here, — " Forgive me, Apollo," I 

cried, " while I pour 
My heart out to my birthplace : O 

loved more and more 
Dear Baystate, from whose rocky bosom 

thy sons 
Should suck milk, strong-will-giving, 

brave, such as runs 
In the veins of old Graylock — who is 

it that dares 
Call thee pedler, a soul wrapped in 

bank-books and shares? 
Itisfalse! She's a Poet! I see, as I write, 
Along the far railroad the steam-snake 

glide white, 
The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I 

hear, 
The swift strokes of trip-hammers wea- 
ry my ear, 
Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs 

the saw screams, 
Blocks swing to their place, beetles 

drive home the beams : — 
It is songs such as these that she croons 

to the din 
Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out 

and year in, 
While from earth's farthest corner there 

comes not a breeze 
But wafts her the buzz of her gold- 
gleaning bees : 
What though those horn hands have as 

yet found small time 
For painting and sculpture and music 

and rhyme ? 
These will come in due order ; the need 

that pressed sorest 
Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, 

the forest, 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



157 



To bridle and harness the rivers, the 

steam, 
Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this 

tug in her team, 
To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and 

make 
Him delve surlily for her on river and 

lake ; — 
When this New World was parted, she 

strove not to shirk 
Her lot in the heirdom, the tough, si- 
lent Work, 
The hero-share ever, from Herakles 

down 
To Odin, the Earth's iron sceptre and 

crown : 
Yes, thou dear, noble Mother ! if ever 

men's praise 
Could be claimed for creating heroical 

lays, 
Thou hast won it ; if ever the laurel 

divine 
Crowned the Maker and Builder, that 

glory is thine ! 
Thy songs are right epic, they tell how 

this rude 
Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed 

and subdued ; 
Thou hast written them plain on the 

face of the planet 
In brave, deathless letters of iron and 

granite ; 
Thou hast printed them deep for all 

time ; they are set 
From the same runic type-fount and 

alphabet 
With thy stout Berkshire hills and the 

arms of thy Bay, — 
They are staves from the burly old 

Mayflower lay. 
If the drones of the Old World, in 

querulous ease, 
Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point 

proudly to these, 
Or, if they deny these are Letters and 

Art, 
Toil on with the same old invincible 

heart ; 
Thou art rearing the pedestal broad- 
based and grand 
Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist 

shall stand, 
And creating, through laborsundaunted 

and long, 



The theme for all Sculpture and Paint- 
ing and Song ! 

" But my good mother Baystate wants 

no praise of mine, 
She learned from her mother a precept 

divine 
About something that butters no pars- 
nips, hex forte 
In another direction lies, work is her 

sport 
(Though she '11 courtesy and set her cap 

straight, that she will, 
If you talk about Plymouth and red 

Bunker's hill). 
Dear, notable goodwife ! by this time 

of night, 
Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire 

burning bright, 
And she sits in a chair (of home plan 

and make) rocking, 
Musing much, all the while, as she 

darns on a stocking, 
Whether turkeys will come pretty high 

next Thanksgiving, 
Whether flour '11 be so dear, for, as 

sure as she's living, 
She will use rye-and-injun then, whether 

the pig 
By this time ain't got pretty tolerable 

big, 
And whether to sell it outright will be 

best, 
Or to smoke hams and shoulders and 

salt down the rest, — 
At this minute, she 'd swop all my 

verses, ah, cruel ! 
For the last patent stove that is saving 

of fuel ; 
So I '11 just let Apollo go on, for his 

phiz 
Shows I 've kept him awaiting too long 

as it is." 

" If our friend, there, who seems a 
reporter, is done 

With his burst of emotion, why, / will 
go on," 

Said Apollo : some smiled, and, indeed, 
I must own 

There was something sarcastic, per- 
haps, in his tone ; — 

" There 's Holmes, who is matchless 
among you for wit ; 



158 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from 

which flit 
The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; 
In long poems 't is painful sometimes, 

and invites 
A thought of the way the new Telegraph 

writes, 
Which pricks down its little sharp 

sentences spitefully 
As if you got more than you 'd title to 

rightfully, 
And you find yourself hoping its wild 

father Lightning 
Would flame in for a second and give 

you a fright'ning. 
He has perfect sway of what / call a 

sham metre, 
But many admire it, the English pen- 
tameter, 
And Campbell, I think, wrote most 

commonly worse, 
With less nerve, swing, and fire in the 

same kind of verse. 
Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy 

of praise 
As the tribute of Holmes to the grand 

Marseillaise. 
You went crazy last year over Bulwer's 

New Timon ; — 
Why, if B., to the day of his dying, 

should rhyme on, 
Heaping verses on verses and tomes 

upon tomes, 
He could ne'er reach the best point 

and vigor of Holmes. 
His are just the fine hands, too, to 

weave you a lyric 
Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced 

with satyric 
In a measure so kindly, you doubt if 

the toes 
That are trodden upon are your own or 

your foes'. 

"There is Lowell, who's striving 
Parnassus to climb 

With a whole bale of isms tied together 
with rhyme, 

He might get on alone, spite of bram- 
bles and boulders, 

But he can't with that bundle he has 
on his shoulders, 

The top. of the hill he will ne'er come 
nigh reaching 



Till he learns the distinction 'twixt 

singing and preaching ; 
His lyre has some chords that would 

ring pretty well, 
But he 'd rather by half make a drum 

of the shell, 
And rattle away till he 's old as Me- 

thusalem, 
At the head of a march to the last new 

Jerusalem. 

"There goes Halleck, whose Fan- 
ny 's a pseudo Don Juan, 

With the wickedness out that gave salt 
to the true one, 

He 's a wit, though, I hear, of the very 
first order, 

And once made a pun on the words 
soft Recorder ; 

More than this, he 's a very great poet, 
I 'm told, 

And has had his works published iu 
crimson and gold, 

With something they call ' Illustra- 
tions,' to wit, 

Like those with which Chapman ob- 
scured Holy Writ,* 

Which are said to illustrate, because, 
as I view it, 

Like lucus a non, they precisely don't 
do it; 

Let a man who can write what himself 
understands 

Keep clear, if he can, of designing 
men's hands, 

Who bury the sense, if there's any 
worth having, 

And then very honestly call it engrav- 
es 

But, to quit badinage, which there 
is n't much wit in, 

Halleck 's better, I doubt not, than all 
he has written ; 

In his verse a clear glimpse you will 
frequently find, / 

If not of a great, of a fortunate mind, 

Which contrives to be true to its natural 
loves 

In a world of back-offices, ledgers, and 
stoves. 

When his heart breaks away from the 
brokers and banks, 

* (Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must ad- 
mit.) 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



*59 



And kneels in its own private shrine to 
give thanks, 

There 's a genial manliness in him that 
earns 

Our sincerest respect (read, for in- 
stance, his " Burns "), 

And we can't but regret (seek excuse 
where we may) 

That so much of a man has been ped- 
dled away. 



" But what 's that ? a mass-meeting? 
No, there come in lots 

The American Disraelis, Bulwers, and 
Scotts, 

And in short the American everything- 
elses, 

Each charging the others with envies 
and jealousies ; — 

By the way, 't is a fact that displays 
what profusions 

Of all kinds of greatness bless free in- 
stitutions, 

That while the Old World has pro- 
duced barely eight 

Of such poets as all men agree to call 
great, 

And of other great characters hardly a 
score 

(One might safely say less than that 
rather than more), 

With you every year a whole crop is 
begotten, 

They 're as much of a staple as corn is, 
or cotton ; 

Why, there 's scarcely a huddle of log- 
huts and shanties 

That has not brought forth its own 
Miltons and Dantes ; 

I myself know ten Byrons, one Cole- 
ridge, three Shelleys, 

Two Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) 
one Apelles, 

Leonardos and Rubenses plenty as 
lichens, 

One (but that one is plenty) American 
Dickens, 

A whole flock of Lambs, any number 
of Tennysons, — 

In short, if a man has the luck to have 
any sons, 

He may feel pretty certain that one out 
of twain 



Will be some very great person over 
again. 

There is one inconvenience in all this 
which lies 

In the fact that by contrast we estimate 
size,* 

And, where there are none except Ti- 
tans, great stature 

Is only a simple proceeding of nature. 

What puff the strained sails of your 
praise shall you furl at, if 

The calmest degree that you know is 
superlative ? 

At Rome, all whom Charon took into 
his wherry must, 

As a matter of course, be well zsszmused 
and errimus&d, 

A Greek, too, could feel, while in that 
famous boat he tost, 

That his friends would take care he 
was urrosed and wTarosed, 

And formerly we, as through grave- 
yards we past, 

Thought the world went from bad to 
worst fearfully fast ; 

Let us glance for a moment, 't is well 
worth the pains, 

And note what an average graveyard 
contains ; 

There lie levellers levelled, duns done 
up themselves, 

There are booksellers finally laid on 
their shelves, 

Horizontally there lie upright politi- 
cians, 

Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep 
faultless physicians, 

There are slave-drivers quietly whipped 
underground, 

There bookbinders, done up in boards, 
are fast bound, 

There card-players wait till the last 
trump be played, 

There all the choice spirits get finally 
laid, 

There the babe that 's unborn is sup- 
plied with a berth, 

* That is in most cases we do, but not all. 
Past a doubt, there are men who are in- 
nately small, 
Such as Blank, who, without being 'inin- 

ished a tittle, 
Might stand for a type of the Absolute 
Little. 



i6o 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



There men without legs get their six 
feet of earth, 

There lawyers repose, each wrapped up 
in his case, 

There seekers of office are sure of a 
place, 

There defendant and plaintiffget equal- 
ly cast, 

There shoemakers quietly stick to the 
last, 

There brokers at length become silent 
as stocks, 

There stage-drivers sleep without quit- 
ting their box, 

And so forth and so forth and so forth 
and so on, 

With this kind of stuff one might end- 
lessly go on ; 

To come to the point, I may safely as- 
sert you 

Will find in each yard every cardinal 
virtue ; * 

Each has six truest patriots : four dis- 
coverers of ether, 

Who never had thought on't nor men- 
tioned it either : 

Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote 
rhyme : 

Two hundred and forty first men of 
their time : 

One person whose portrait just gave 
the least hint 

Its original had a most horrible squint : 

One critic, most (what do they call it ?) 
reflective, 

Who never had used the phrase ob- or 
subjective : 

Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom 
twenty bred 

Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so 
much a head, 

And their daughters for — faugh ! thir- 
ty mothers of Gracchi : 

Non-resistants who gave many a spirit- 
ual black-eye : 

Eight true friends of their kind, one of 
whom was a jailer : 

Four captains almost as astounding as 
Taylor : 



* (And at this just conclusion will surely 
arrive, 
That the goodness of earth is more dead 
than alive.) 



Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot 

us his 
Kaisership dajly, stern pen-and-ink 

Brutuses, 
Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with 

crucified smile,* 
Mount serenely their country's funereal 

pile : 
Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious re- 

bellers 
'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets 

and cellars, 
Who shake their dread fists o'er the 

sea and all that, — 
As long as a copper drops into the hat : 
Nine hundred Teutonic republicans 

stark 
From Vaterland's battles just won — 

in the Park, 
Who the happy profession of martyr- 
dom take 
Whenever it gives them a chance at a 

steak : 
Sixty-two second Washingtons : two or 

three Jacksons : 
And so many everythings-else that it 

racks one's 
Poor memory too much to continue the 

list, 
Especially now they no longer exist ; — 
I would merely observe that you 've 

taken to giving 
The puffs that belong to the dead to the 

living, 
And that somehow your trump-of-con- 

temporary-doom's tones 
Is tuned after old dedications and 

tombstones." — 

Here the critic came in and a thistle 
presented t — 

P'rom a frown to a smile the god's fea- 
tures relented, 

As he stared at his envoy, who, swell- 
ing with pride, 

To the god's asking look, nothing 
daunted, replied, — 

* Not forgetting their tea and their toast, 

though, the while, 
t Turn back now to page — goodness only 

knows what, 
And take a fresh hold on the thread of 

my plot. 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



161 



" You're surprised, I . suppose, I was 

absent so long. 
But your godship respecting the lilies 

was wrong ; 
I hunted the garden from one end to 

t'other, 
And got no reward but vexation and 

bother, 
Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner 

to wither, 
This one lily I found and made haste 

to bring hither." 

K Did he think I had given him a 
book to review ? 

I ought to have known what the fellow 
would do," 

Muttered Phoebus aside, "for a thistle 
will pass 

Beyond doubt for the queen of all 
flowers with an ass ; 

He has chosen in just the same way as 
he 'd choose 

His specimens out of the books he re- 
views ; 

And now, as this offers an excellent 
text, 

I '11 give 'em some brief hints on criti- 
cism next." 

So, musing a moment, he turned to the 
crowd, 

And, clearing his voice, spoke as fol- 
lows aloud : — 

- My friends, in the happier days 

of the muse, 
We were luckily tree from such things 

as reviews ; 
Then naught came between with its 

fog To make clearer 
i'he heart of the poet to that of his 

hearer ; 
Then the poet brought heaven to the 

people, and they 
Felt that they, too, were poets in hear- 
ing his lay ; 
Then the poet was prophet, the past in 

his soul 
Precreated the future, both parts of 

one whole ; 
Then for him there was nothing too 

great or too small, 
For one natural deity sanctified all ; 



Then the bard owned no clipper aid 
meter of moods 

Save the spirit of silence that hovers 
and broods 

O'er the seas and the mountains, the 
rivers and woods ; 

He asked not earth's verdict, forget- 
ting the clods, 

His soul soared and sang to an audi- 
ence of gods ; 

'T was for them that he measured the 
thought and the line, 

And shaped tor their vision the perfect 
design, 

With as glorious a foresight, a balance 
as true, 

As swung out the worlds in the infinite 
blue ; 

Then a glory and greatness invested 
man's heart, _ 

The universal, which now stands es- 
tranged and apart, 

In the free individual moulded, was 
Art; 

Then the forms of the Artist seemed 
thrilled w : ith desire 

For something as yet unattained, ful- 
ler, higher, 

As once with her lips, lifted hands, and 
eyes listening, 

And her whole upward soul in her 
countenance glistening, 

Eurydice stood — like a beacon un- 
fired. 

Which, once touched w r ith flame, will 
leap heav'nward inspired — 

And waited with auswering kindle to 
mark 

The first gleam of Orpheus that pained 
the red Dark. 

Then painting, song, sculpture did 
more than relieve 

The need that men feel to create ar>H 
believe, 

And as, in all beauty, who listens wieu 
love 

Hears these words oft repeated — 'be- 
yond and above,' 

So these seemed to be but the visible 
sign 

Of the grasp of the soul after things 
more divine ; 

They were ladders the Artist erected to 
climb 



162 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



O'er the narrow horizon of space and 
of time, 

And we see there the footsteps by 
which men had gained 

To the one rapturous glimpse of the 
never-attained, 

As shepherds could erst sometimes 
trace in the sod 

The last spuming print of a sky-cleav- 
ing god. 

"But now, on the poet's dis-priva- 
cied moods 

With do this and do that the pert critic 
intrudes ; 

While he thinks he 's been barely ful- 
filling his duty 

To interpret 'twixt men and their own 
sense of beauty, 

And has striven, while others sought 
honor or pelf, 

To make his kind happy as he was him- 
self, 

He finds he 's been guilty of horrid 
offences 

In all kinds of moods, numbers, gen- 
ders, and tenses ; 

He 's been ob and jw^jective, what 
Kettle calls Pot, 

Precisely, at all events, what he ought 
not, , 

You have done this, says one judge ; 
done that, says another ; 

You should have done th : s, grumbles 
one ; that, says t'other ; 

Never mind what he touches, one 
shrieks out Taboo I 

And while he is wondering what he 
shall do, 

Since each suggests opposite topics for 
song, 

They all shout together you We right I 
and you We wrong ! 

"Nature fits all her children with 
something to do, 



He who would write and can't write, 

can surely review, 
Can set up a small booth as critic and 

sell us his 
Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies ; 
Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of 

his teens, 
Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines; 
Having read Johnson's lives of the po- 
ets half through, 
There 's nothing on earth he 's not 

competent to ; 
He reviews with as much nonchalance 

as he whistles, — 
He goes through a book and just picks 

out the thistles, 
It matters not whether he blame or 

commend, 
If he 's bad as a foe, he 's far worse as 

a friend ; 
Let an author but write what 's above 

his poor scope, 
He goes to work gravely and twists up 

a rope, 
And, inviting the world to see punish- 
ment done, 
Hangs himself up to bleach in the wind 

and the sun ; 
'T is delightful to see, when a man 

comes along 
Who has anything in him peculiar and 

strong, 
Every cockboat that swims clear its 

fierce (pop) gundeck at him, 
And make as he passes its ludicrous 

Peck at him — " 

Here Miranda came up and began, 

"As to that — " 
Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, 

and hat, 
And, seeing the place getting rapidly 

cleared, 
I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith 

disappeared. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 



[ I have observed, reader (bene- or 
male-volent, as it may happen), that it 
is customary to append to the second 
editions of books, and to the second 
works of authors, short sentences com- 
mendatory of the first, under the title of 
Notices of the Press. These, I have 
been given to understand, are procura- 
ble at certain established rates, pay- 
ment being made either in money or 
advertising patronage by the publisher, 
or by an adequate outlay of servility on 
the part of the author. Considering 
these things with myself, and also that 
such notices are neither intended, nor 
generally believed, to convey any real 
opinions, being a purely ceremonial ac- 
companiment of literature, and resem- 
bling certificates to the virtues of various 
morbiferal panaceas, I conceived that 
it would be not only more economical 
to prepare a sufficient number of such 
myself, but also more immediately sub- 
servient to the end in view to prefix 
them to this our primary edition rather 
than await the contingency of a second, 
when they would seem to be of small 
utility. To delay attaching the bobs 
until the second attempt at flying the 
kite would indicate but a slender ex- 
perience in that useful art. Neither 
has it escaped my notice, nor failed to 
afford me matter of reflection, that, 
when a circus or a caravan is about to 
visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send 
forward large and highly ornamented 
bills of performance to be hung in the 
bar-room and the post-office. These 
having been sufficiently gazed at, and 
beginning to lose their attractiveness 
except for the flies, and, truly, the boys 
also (in whom I find it impossible to re- 
press, even during school-hours, certain 
oral and telegraphic communications 



concerning the expected show), upon 
some fine morning the band enters in 
a gayly painted wagon, or triumphal 
chariot, and with noisy advertisement, 
by means of brass, wood, and sheep- 
skin, makes the circuit of our startled 
village streets. Then, as the exciting 
sounds draw nearer and nearer, do I 
desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, 
" whose looks were as a breeching to a 
boy." Then do I perceive, with vain 
regret of wasted opportunities, the ad- 
vantage of a pancratic or pantechnic 
education, since he is most reverenced 
by my little subjects who can throw the 
cleanest summerset or walk most se- 
curely upon the revolving cask. The 
story of the Pied Piper becomes for the 
first time credible to me (albeit con- 
firmed by the Hameliners dating their 
legal instruments from the period of his 
exit), as I behold how those strains, 
without pretence of magical potency, 
bewitch the pupillary legs, nor leave to 
the pedagogic an entire self-control. 
For these reasons, lest my kingly pre- 
rogative should suffer diminution, I 
prorogue my restless commons, whom 
I also follow into the street, chiefly lest 
some mischief may chance befall them. 
After the manner of such a band, I 
send forward the following notices of 
domestic manufacture, to make brazen 
proclamation, not unconscious of the ad- 
vantage which will accrue, if our little 
craft, cymbula sutilis, shall seem to 
leave port with a clipping breeze, and 
to carry, in nautical phrase, a bone in 
her mouth. Nevertheless, I have 
chosen, as being more equitable, to pre- 
pare some also sufficiently objurga- 
tory, that readers of every taste may 
find a dish to their palate. I have 
modelled them upon actually existing 



x66 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



specimens, preserved in my own cabi- 
net of natural curiosities. One, in par- 
ticular, I had copied with tolerable ex- 
actness from a notice of one of my own 
discourses, which, from its superior 
tone and appearance of vast experience, 
I concluded to have been written by a 
man at least three hundred years of 
age, though I recollected no existing 
instance of stfth antediluvian longevity. 
Nevertheless, I afterwards discovered 
the author to be a young gentleman 
preparing for the ministry under the 
direction of one of my brethren in a 
neighboring town, and whom I had 
once instinctively corrected in a Latin 
quantity. But this I have been forced 
to omit, from its too great length. — H. 
W.] 



From the Universal Littery Universe. 

Full of passages which rivet the attention 

of the reader Under a rustic garb. 

sentiments are conveyed which should be 
committed to the memory and engraven on 
the heart of every moral and social being. 
.... We consider this a unique perform- 
ance .... We hope to see it soon in- 
troduced into our common schools 

Mr. Wilbur has performed his duties as ed- 
itor with excellent taste and judgment 

This is a vein which we hope to see suc- 
cessfully prosecuted We hail the ap- 
pearance of this work as a long stride toward 
the formation of a purely aboriginal, indige- 
nous, native, and American literature. We 
rejoice to meet with an author national 
enough to break away from the slavish def- 
erence, too common among us, to English 

grammar and orthography Where all 

is so good, we are at a loss how to make ex- 
tracts On the whole, we may call it a 

volume which no library, pretending to en- 
tire completeness, should fail to place upon 
its shelves. 



From the Higginbottomopolis Snapping- 
turtle. 

A collection of the merest balderdash and 
doggerel that it was ever our bad fortune to 
lay eyes on. The author is a vulgar buffoon, 
and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. 
We use strong language, but should any of 
our readers peruse the book, (from which 
calamity Heaven preserve them !) they will 
find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Val- 
lumbrozer, or, to use a still more expressive 



comparison, as the combined heads of author 
and editor. The work is wretchedly got up. 
.... We should like to know how much 
British gold was pocketed by this libeller of 
our country and her purest patriots. 



From the Oidfogrumville Mentor. 

We have not had time to do more than 
glance through this handsomely printed vol- 
ume, but the name of its respectable editor, 
the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford 
a sufficient guaranty for the worth of its con- 
tents The paper is white, the type 

clear, and the volume of a convenient and 
attractive size In reading this ele- 
gantly executed work, it has seemed to us 
that a passage or two might have been re- 
trenched with advantage, and that the 
general style of diction was susceptible of a 

higher polish On the whole, we may 

safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism 
to the reader. We will barely suggest, that 
in volumes intended, as this is, for the illus- 
tration of a provincial dialect and turns of 
expression, a dash of humor or satire mjght 

be thrown in with advantage The 

work is admirably got up This work 

will form an appropriate ornament to the 
centre-table. It is beautifully printed, on 
paper of an excellent quality. 



From the Dekay Bulwark. 

We should be wanting in our duty as tnc 
conductor of that tremendous engine, a pul- 
lic press, as an American, and as a man, did 
we allow such an opportunity as is presented 
to us by " The Bigiow Papers " to pass by 
without entering our earnest protest against 
such attempts (now, alas ! too common) at 
demoralizing the public sentiment. Under a 
wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, 
war, the social glass, and, in short, all the 
valuable and time-honored institutions justly 
dear to our common humanity and especially 
to republicans, are made the butt of coarse 
and senseless ribaldry by this low-minded 
scribbler. It is time that the respectable and 
religious portion of our community should be 
aroused to the alarming inroads of foreign 
Jacobinism, sansculottism, and infidelity. It 
is a fearful proof of the wide-spread na' ure 
of this contagion, that these secret stabs at 
religion and virtue are given from under the 
cloak {credite, posteri !) of a clergyman. It 
is a mournful spectacle indeed to the patriot 
and Christian to see liberality and new 
ideas (falsely so called, — they are as old as 
Eden) invading the sacred precincts of the 

pulpit On the whole, we consider 

this volume as one of the first shocking re- 
sults which we predicted would spring out of 
the late French " Revolution " ( I). 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 



167 



From, the Bung-town Copper and Compre- 
hensive Tocsin (a try-weakly family 
journal). 

Altogether an admirable work Full 

of humor, boisterous, but delicate, — of wit 
withering and scorching, yet combined with 
a pathos cool as morning dew, — of satire 
ponderous as the mace of Richard, yet keen 

as the scymitar of Saladin A work 

full of "mountain-mirth," mischievous as 

Puck, and lightsome as Ariel We 

know not whether to admire most the genial, 
fresh, and discursive concinnity of the author, 
or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and 
compass of style, at once both objective and 

subjective We might indulge in some 

criticisms, but, were the author other than he 
is, he would be a different being. As it is, 
he has a wonderful pose, which flits from 
flower to flower, and bears the reader irre- 
sistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Gany- 
mede) to the " highest heaven of invention." 
.... We love a book so purely objective. 
.... Many of his pictures of natural scenery 
have an extraordinary subjective clearness 

and fidelity In fine, we consider this 

as one of the most extraordinary volumes of 
this or any age. We know of no English 
author who could have written it. It is a 
work to which the proud genius of our coun- 
try, standing with one foot on the Aroostook 
and the other on the Rio Grande, and hold- 
ing up the star-spangled banner amid the 
wreck of matter and the crush of worlds, may 
point with bewildering scorn of the punier 

efforts of enslaved Europe We hope 

soon to encounter our author among those 
higher walks of literature in which he is 
evidently capable of achieving enduring 
fame. Already we should be inclined to 
assign him a high position in the bright 
galaxy of our American bards. 



From, the Saltrivet Pilot and Flag of Free- 
dom. 
A volume in bad grammar and worse taste. 
.... While the pieces here collected were 
confined to their appropriate sphere in the 
corners of obscure newspapers, we considered 
them wholly beneath contempt, but, as the 
author has chosen to come forward in this 
public manner, he must expect the lash he 
so richly merits Contemptible slan- 
ders Vilest Billingsgate Has 

raked all the gutters of our language 

The most pure, upright, and consistent 
politicians not safe from his malignant venom. 
.... General Cushing comes in for a share 

of his vile calumnies The Reverend 

Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth 

Front the World-Harmonic-Aiolian-At- 

tachment. 

Speech is silver : silence is golden. No 

utterance more Orphic than this. While, 



therefore, as highest author, we reverence 
him whose works continue heroically un- 
written, we have also our hopeful word for 
those who with pen (from wing of goose loud- 
cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) re- 
cord the thing that is revealed Un- 
der mask of quaintest irony, we detect here 
the deep, storm-tost (nigh shipwracked) soul, 
thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever 
climbing hopefully toward the peaceful sum- 
mits of an Infinite Sorrow Yes, thou 

poor, forlorn Hosea, with Hebrew fire-flam- 
ing soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours 
has not been without its aspects of heaven- 
liest pity and laughingest mirth. Conceiva- 
ble enough ! Through coarse Thersites- 
cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild- 
glowing, world-clasping, that is in him. 
Bravely he grapples with the life-problem as 
it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, 
careless o the " nicer proprieties," inexpert 
of " elegant diction," yet with voice audible 
enough to whoso hath ears, up there on the 
gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, 
mdiarubber-like salt-marshes of native Jaa- 
lam. To this soul also the Necessity of Creat- 
ing somewhat has unveiled its awful front. 
If not CEdipuses and Electras and Alcestises, 
then in God's name Birdofredum Sawins ! 
These also shall get born into the world, and 
filch (if so need) a Zingali subsistence therein, 
these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He 
shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will 
not sit to him. Yet in him also are Nibelun- 
gen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses-wanderings, 
and Divine Comedies, — if only once he could 
come at them ! Therein lies much, nay all ; 
for what truly is this which we name All, 
but that which we do not possess ? . . . . 
Glimpses also are given us of an old father 
Ezekiel, not without paternal pride, as is the 
wont of such. A brown, parchment-hided 
old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, 
gray-eyed, we fancy, queued perhaps, with 
much weather-cunning and plentiful Septem- 
ber-gale memories, bidding fair in good time 
to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such 
hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no 

more Of " Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. 

M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," 
we have small care to speak here. Spare 
touch in him of his Melesigenes namesake, 
save, haply, the — blindness ! A tolerably 
caliginose, nephe-legeretous elderly gentle- 
man, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, 
muscularized by long practice, and excellent 
digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, well- 
meaning enough, and with small private il- 
luminations (somewhat tallowy, it is to be 
feared) of his own. To him, there, " Pastor 
of the First Church in Jaalam," our Hosea 
presents himself as a quite inexplicable 
Sphinx-riddle. A rich poverty of Latin and 
Greek, — so far is clear enough, even to 
eyes peering myopic through, horn-lensed 
editorial spectacles, — but naught farther? 
O purblind, well-meaning, altogether fuscous 



i68 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Melesigenes- Wilbur, there are things in him 
incommunicable by stroke of birch I Did it 
ever enter that old bewildered head of thine 
that there was the Possibility of the Infinite 
in him ? To thee, quite wingless (and even 
featherless) biped, has not so much even as 
a dream of wings ever come? "Talented 
young parishioner " ? Among the Arts where- 
of thou art Magister, does that of seeing hap- 
pen to be one ? Unhappy A rtiitm M agister ! 
Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous, torrid- 
eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand- 
wildernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit- Libya 
(it may be supposed) has got whelped among 
the sheep. Already he stands wild-glaring, 
with feet clutching the ground as with oak- 
roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over 
the walls of thy little fold. In Heaven's 
name, go not near him with that flybite crook 
of thine ! In good time, thou painful preach- 
er, thou wilt go to the appointed place of 
departed Artillery-Election Sermons, Right- 
Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Coun- 
cils, gathered to thy spiritual fathers with 
much Latin of the Epitaphial sort ; thou, 
too, shalt have thy reward ; but on him the 
Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes of 
the pit, snake-tressed, finger-threatening, but 
radiantly calm as on antique gems ; for him 
paws impatient the winged courser of the 
gods, champing unwelcome bit ; him the 
starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, and far- 
flashing splendors await. 



From the Onion Grove Phoenix. 

A talented young townsman of ours, re- 
cently returned from a Continental tour, and 
who is already favorably known to our read- 
ers by his sprightly letters from abroad 
which have graced our columns, called at our 
office yesterday. We learn from him, that, 
having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, 
while in Germany, of an introduction to the 
celebrated Von Humbug, he took the oppor- 
tunity to present that eminent man with a 
copy of the " Biglow Papers." The next 
morning he received the following note, 
which he has kindly furnished us tor publica- 
tion. We prefer to print it verbatim, know- 
ing that our readers will readily forgive the 
few errors into which the illustrious writer 
has fallen, through ignorance of our lan- 
guage. 

"High-Worthy Mister! 
" I shall also now especially happy starve, 
because I have more or less a work of one 
those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which 
have I so deaf an interest ever taken full- 
worthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched 
to be upset. 

" Pardon my in the English-speech un- 
practice 1 

"VON HUMBUG." 
He also sent with the above note a copy of 
his famous work on " Cosmetics," to be pre- 



sented to Mr. Biglow ; but this was taken 
from our friend by the English custom-house 
officers, probably through a petty national 
spite. No doubt, it has by this time found 
its way into the British Museum. We trust 
this outrage will be exposed in all our Ameri- 
can papers. We shall do our best to bring 
it to the notice of the State Department. 
Our numerous readers will share in the pleas- 
ure we experience at seeing our young and 
vigorous national literature thus encourag- 
ingly patted on the head by this venerable 
and world-renowned German. We love to 
see these reciprocations of good-feeling be- 
tween the different branches of the great 
Anglo-Saxon race. 

[The following genuine "notice" 
having met my eye, I gladly insert a 
portion of it here, the more especially 
as it contains one of Mr. Biglow's 
poems not elsewhere printed. — H. W.] 



From the Jaalam Independent Blunder- 
buss. 
.... But, while we lament to see our young 
townsman thus mingling in the heated con- 
tests of party politics, we think we detect in 
him the presence of talents which, if prop- 
erly directed, might give an innocent pleas- 
ure to many. As a proof that he is compe- 
tent to the production of other kinds of 
poetry, we copy for our readers a short frag- 
ment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript 
of which was loaned us by a friend. The 
title of it is " The Courtin. 

ZEKLE crep' up, quite unbeknown, 

An' peeked in thru the winder, 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'ith no one nigh to hender. 

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen s-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back frum Concord busted. 

The wannut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her I 

An' leetle fires danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

The very room, coz she wuz in, 
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez th' apples she wuz peehn*. 

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, 

Araspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o Titered on the mat. 

Some doubtfle o' the seekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pitypat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 



169 



An" yet she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder 

An' on her apples kep' to work 
Ez ef a wager spurred her. 

" You want to see my Pa, I spose ? " 
" Wal, no ; I come designin' — " 

" To see my Ma? She 's sprinklin' clo'e 
Agin to-morrow's i'ninV 

He^tood a spell on one foot fust 
Then stood a spell on tother, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He could n't ha' told ye, nuther. 



Sez he, "I 'd better call agin " ; 

Sez she, " Think likely, Mister" ; 
The last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' — wal, he up and kist her. 

When Ma biraeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kind o' smily round the lips 

An' teary round the lashes. 

Her blood riz quick, though, like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they wuz cried 

In meetin', come nex Sunday. 



Satis multis sese emptores futuros 
libri professis, Georgius Nichols, Can- 
tabrigiensis, opus emittet de parte gravi 
sed adhuc neg'ecta historiae naturalis, 
cum titulo sequeuti, videlicet : 

Conatus ad Delineationem natura- 
lem notinihil perfectiorem Scarabczi 
Botnbilatoris, vulgo dicti Humbug, ab 
Homero Wilbur, Artium Magistro, 
Societatis historico-naturalis Jaalamen- 
sis Praeside (Secretario, Socioque 
(eheu !) singulo , multarumque aliarura 
Societatum eruditarum (sive inerudita- 
ruin) tarn domesticarum quam transma- 
rinarum Socio — forsitan futuro. 

PROEMIUM. 

Lectori Benevolo S. 
• Toga scholastica nondum deposita, 
quum system ata varia entom )logica, a 
viris ejus sciential cultoribusstudiosissi- 
mis summa diligentia agdificata, penitus 
indagassem, non fuit quin luctuose 
omnibus in iis, quamvis aliter laude 
dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti 
perciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu 
superiors impulsus, aut quacaptus dul- 
cedin» operis, ad eum implendum v Cur- 
tius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nee 
ab isto labore, Sat.aoi'tto? imposito, ab- 
stinui antequam tractatulum sufficienter 
inconcinnum lingua vernacula perfece- 
ram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et 
barathro ineptiae t&v |8<./SA.io-goAu>v (nec- 
non " Publici Legentis " ) nusquam ex- 
plorato, me composuisse quod quasi pla- 
centas praefervidas [ut sic dicam) homi- 
nes ingurgitarent credidi. Sed, quum 



huic et alio bibliopolas MSS. mea sub- 
misissemet nihil solidius responsione 
valde negativa in Musaeum meum re- 
tulissem, horror ingens atque misericor- 
dia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in 
cerebris homunculorum istius muneris 
ccelesti quadam ira infixam, me inva- 
sere. Extemplo mei solius impensis 
librum edere decrevi, nihil omnino 
dubitans quin " Mundus Scientificus " 
(ut aiunt) crumenam meam ampliterre- 
pleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo 
meo parvulo segetem demessui, praster 
gaudium vacuum bene de Republica 
merendi. Iste panis meus pretiosus 
super aquas literarias fasculentas pras- 
fidenter jactus, quasi Harpyiarum qua- 
rundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum 
facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu 
rancidus, intra perpaucos dies _ mihi 
domum rediit. Et, quum ipse tali victu 
ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem 
venit pistori (typographo nempe) ni- 
hilominus solvendum esse. Animum 
non idcirco demisi, imo asque ac pueri 
naviculas suas penes selinoretinent (eo 
ut e recto cursu delapsas ad ripam re- 
trahant), sic ego Argo meam chartaceam 
fluctibus laborantem a quaesitu velleris 
aurei, ipse potius tonsus pelleque exu- 
tus, mente solida revocavi. iNIetapho- 
ram ut mutem, boomarangam meam a 
scopo aberantem retraxi, dum maiore 
vi, occasione ministrante, adversus For- 
tunam intorquerem. Ast mihi, talia vol- 
venti, et, sicut Saturnus illeTratfioSooo?, 
liberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, 
casus miserandus, nee antea inauditus, 
supervenit. Nam. ut ferunt Scyrhas 
pietatis causa et parsimoniae, parentes 



170 



THE BIGLOIV PAPERS. 



buos mortuos devorasse, sic Alius hie 
meus primogenitus, Scythisipsis minus 
mansuetus, patrem vivum totum e cal- 
citrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nee 
tamen hac de causa sobolem meam 
esurientem exheredavi. Sed famem 
istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis 
roborisque potius habui, cibumque ad 
earn satiandam, salva paterna mea 
came, petii. Et quia bilem illam sca- 
turientem ad aes etiam concoquendum 
idoneam esse estimabam, unde ass ali- 
enum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, cir- 
cumspexi. Rebus ita se habentibus, 
ab avunculo meo Johanne Doolittle, 
Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias neces- 
sarias suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi 
universitatem relinquendi antequam ad 
gradum primum in artibus pervenissem. 
Tunc ego, salvum facere patronum 
meum munificum maxime cupiens, 
omnes libros primae editionis operis 
mei non venditos una cum privilegio in 
omne aevum ejusdem imprimendi et 
edendi avunculo meo dicto pigneravi. 
Ex illo, die, atro lapide notando, curae 
vociferantes familiar singulis annis 
crescentis eo usque insultabant ut nun- 
quam tarn carum pignus e vinculis istis 
aheneis solvere possem. 

Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum 
inter alios consanguineos testamenti 
ejus lectionem audiendi causa advenis- 
sem, erectis auribus verba talia sequen- 
tia accepi : — "Quoniam persuasum 
habeo meum dilectum nepotem Home- 
rum, longa etintima rerumangustarum 
domi experientia, aptissimum esse qui 
divitias tueatur, beneficenterque ac 
prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur, — 
ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque 
amore meo in ilium magno, do, legoque 
nepoti caro meo supranominato omnes 
singularesque istas possessiones nee 
ponderabiles nee computabiles meas 
qua? sequuntur, scilicet : quingentos 
libros quos mihi pigneravit dictus 
Homerus, anno lucis 1792, cum privi- 
legio edendi et repetendi opus istud 
'scientificum ' (quod dicunt) suum, si 
sic elegerit. Tamen D. O. M. precor 
oculos Homeri nepotis mei ita aperiat 
eumque moveat, ut libros istos in biblio- 
theca umus e plurimis castellis suis 
Hispaniensibus tuto abscondat." 



His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, 
cor meum inpectore exsultavit. Deinde, 
quoniam tractatus Anglice scriptus 
spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum 
studium Historiae Naturalis in Repub- 
lica nostra inter fac.tionis strepitum 
languescat, Latine versum ederestatui, 
et eo potius quia nescio quomodo disci- 
plina academica et duo diplomata pro- 
riciant, nisi quod peritos linguarum • 
omnino mortuarum et damnandarum, 
ut dicebat iste navovpyos Gulielmus 
Cobbett nos faciant. 

Et mihi adhuc superstes est tota ilia 
editio prima, quam quasi crepitaculum 
per quod dentes camnosdentibam reti- 
neo. 

OPERIS SPECIMEN. 

(Ad exemplnm Johannis Physiophili spe- 

ciminis Mc»iachologice.) 

12. S. B. Militaris, WILBUR. Carnifex, 

JABLONSK. Pro/amis. DESFONT. 

[Male hancce speciem Cyclopem Fabri- 
cius vocat, ut qui singulo oculo ad quod sui 
interest distinguitur. Melius vero Isaacus 
Outis nullum inter S. milit. S.que Belzebul 
(Fabric. 152) discrimen esse defendit.] 

Habitat civitat. Americ. austral. 

Aureis lineis splendidus ; plerumque ta- 
men sordidus, utpote lanienas valde frequen- 
tans, fcetore sanguinis allectus. Amat quo- 
que insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi 
maxima conatione detruditur. Candidates 
ergo populariter vocatus. Caput cristam 
quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam 
publicam callide mulget ; abdomen enorme ; 
facultas suctus haud facile estimanda. Otio- 
sus, fatuus ; ferox nihilominus, semperque 
dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. 

Capite saepe maxima cum cura dissecto, 
ne illud rudimentum etiam cerebri commune 
omnibus prope insectis detegere poteram. 

Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem 
notavi ; nam S. Guineens. (Fabric. 143) ser- 
vos facit, et idcirco a multis summa in rever- 
entia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis paene 
humanae demonstrans. 

24. S. B. Criticus, WILBUR. Zoihts, FA- 
BRIC. Pygmczus, CARLSEN. 

[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. puncta- 
to (Fabric. 64-109) confundit. Speciniina 
quamplurima scrutationi microscopicae sub- 
jeci, nunquam tamen unum ulla indicia 
puncti cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.| 

Praecipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in 
proxima rima anonyma sese abscondit, ive, 
7ve, creberrime stridens. Ineptus, segnipes. 

Habitat ubique gentium ; in sicco ; nidum 
suum terebratione indefessa aedificans. Ci- 
bus. Libros depascit ; siccos praecipue 



MELIBCEUS-HIPPONAX. 



THE 

Sigloro Papers, 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, GLOSSARY, AND 
COPIOUS INDEX. 

BY 

HOMER WILBUR, A. M., 

PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF 
MANY LITERARY, LEARNED, AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES, 

(for which see page 173 ) 

The ploughman's whistle, or the tri/ial flute, 
Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. 

Quarter's Emblems, b. ii. e. 8. 

Margaritas, munde porcine, calcSsti : en, siliquas accipe. 

Jac. Car. Fit. ad Pub. Leg. § 1. 



NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 



It will not have escaped the atten- 
tive eye, that I have, on the title-page, 
omitted those honorary appendages to 
the editorial name which not only add 
greatly to the value of every book, but 
whet and exacerbate the appetite of 
the reader. For not only does he sur- 
mise that an honorary membership of 
literary and scientific societies implies 
a certain amount of necessary distinc- 
tion on the part of the recipient of 
such decorations, but he is willing to 
trust himself more entirely to an author 
who writes under the fearful responsi- 
bility of involving the reputation of 
such bodies as the 6\ Archceoi. Dahon. 
or the Acad. Lit. et Scieut. Kam- 
tschat I cannot but think that the 
early editions of Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton would have met with more rapid 
and general acceptance, but for the 
barrenness of their respective title- 
pages; and I believe, that, even now, 
a publisher of the works of either of 
those justly distinguished men would 
find his account in procuring their ad- 
mission to the membership of learned 
bodies on the Continent, — a proceed- 
ing no whit more incongruous than the 
reversal of the judgment against Soc- 
rates, when he was already more than 
twenty centuries beyond the reach of 
antidotes, and when his memory had 
acquired a deserved respectability. I 
conceive that it was a feeling of the 
importance of this precaution which 
induced Mr. Locke to style himself 
" Gent." on the title-page of his Essay, 
as who should say to his readers that 
they could receive his metaphysics on 
the honor of a gentleman. 

Nevertheless, finding that, without 
descending to a smaller size of type 
than would have been compatible with 



the dignity of the several societies to be 
named, I could not compress my in- 
tended list within the limits of a single 
page, and thinking, moreover, that the 
act would carry with it an air of deco- 
rous modesty, I have chosen to take 
the reader aside, as it were, into my 
private closet, and there not only ex- 
hibit to him the diplomas which I al- 
ready possess, but also to furnish him 
with a prophetic vision of those which 
I may, without undue presumption, 
hope for, as not beyond the reach of 
human ambition and attainment. And 
I am the rather induced to this from 
the fact that my name has been unac- 
countably dropped from the last trien- 
nial catalogue of our beloved Alma 
Mater. Whether this is to be attrib- 
uted to the difficulty of Latinizing any 
of those honorary adjuncts (with a com- 
plete list of which I took care to fur- 
nish the proper persons nearly a year 
beforehand), or whether it had its 01 i 
gin in any more culpable motives, i 
forbear to consider in this place, th .* 
matter being in course of painful in- 
vestigation. But, however this may he, 
I felt the omission the more keenly, as 
I had, in expectation of the new cata- 
logue, enriched the library of the ]x\- 
lam Athenaeum with the old one then 
in my possession, by which means it 
has come about that my children will 
be deprived of a never-wearying win- 
ter-evening's amusement in looking 
out the name of their parent in that 
distinguished roll. Those harmless in- 
nocents had at least committed no 

but I forbear, having intrusted my re- 
flections and animadversions on this 
painful topic to the safe-keeping of my 
private diary, intended for posthumous 
publication. I state this fact here, in 



NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 



173 



order that certain nameless individuals, 
who are, perhaps, overmuch congratu- 
lating themselves upon my silence, may 
know that a rod is in pickle which the 
vigorous hand of a justly incensed pos- 
terity will apply to their memories. 

The careful reader will note, that, in 
the list which I have prepared, I have 
included the names of several Cisat- 
lantic societies to which a place is not 
commonly assigned in processions of 
this nature. 1 have ventured to do 
this, not only to encourage native am- 
bition and genius, but also because I 
have never been able to perceive in 
what way distance (unless we suppose 
them at the end of a lever) could in- 
crease the weight of learned bodies. 
As far as I have been able to extend 
my researches among such stuffed spec- 
imens as occasionally reach America, I 
have discovered no generic difference 
between the antipodal Fogrum Ja- 
fonicum and the F. A mericanum suf- 
ficiently common in our own immediate 
neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming 
deference to the popular belief that 
distinctions of this sort are enhanced 
in value by every additional mile they 
travel, I have intermixed the names of 
some tolerably distant literary and oth- 
er associations with the rest. 

I add here, also, an advertisement, 
which, that it may be the more readily 
understood by those persons especially 
interested therein, I have written in 
that curtailed and otherwise maltreated 
canine Latin, to the writing and read- 
ing of which they are accustomed. 

Omnib. per tot. Orb. Terrar. 
Catalog. Academ. Edd. 

Minim, gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. 
acad. vest, orans, vir. honorand. opero- 



siss., at sol. ut sciat. quant, glor. nom. 
meum (dipl. fort, concess.) catal. vest, 
temp, futur. affer., ill. subjec, addit. 
omnib. titul. honorar. qu. adh. non 
tant. opt. quam probab. put. 
***** Litt. Uncial, distinx. ut Ptcbs. 
S. Hist. Nat. Jaal. 

HOMERUS WILBUR, Mr., 
Episc. Jaalam, S. T. D. 1850, et Yal. 
1849, et Neo-Cass. et Brun. et Guiielm. 
1852, et Gul. et Mar. et Bowd. et Geor- 
giop. et Viridimont. et Colomb. Nov. 
Ebor. 1853. et Amherst, et Watervill. et 
S. Jarlath. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, 
et S. And. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et 
Dart, et Dickins. et Concord, et Wash. 
et Columbian, et Chariest, et Jeff, et 
Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et Cast. 1855, 
P. U. N. C. H. et J. U. D. Gott. et 
Osnab. et Heidelb. i860, et Acad. 
Bore us. Berolin. Soc, et SS. RR. 
Lugd. Bat. et Patav. et Lond. et 
Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. Terr. 
et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. 
P. A. et A. A. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et 
S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. Aliar. Pro- 
mov. Passamaquod. et H. P. C. et I. 
O. H. et A. A. $. et II. K. P. et $. B. 
K. et Peucin et Erosoph. et Philadelph. 
et Frat. in Unit, et 2. T. et S. Ar- 
chaeolog. Athen. et Acad. Scient. et Lit. 
Panorm. et SS. R. H. Matrit. et Bee- 
loochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. S. 
Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. 
Hon. et P. D. Gott. et LL. D. 1852, et 
D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. i860, 
et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. 
Fac. Univ. Harv. Soc. et S. pro Con- 
vers. Pollywog. Soc. Hon. et Higgl. 
Piggl. et LL. B. 1853, et S. pro Chris- 
tianiz. Moschet. Soc, et SS. Ante- 
Diluv. ubiq. Gent. Soc. Hon. et Civit. 
Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. General. 
Tenebr. Secret. Corr. 



INTRODUCTION. 



When, more than three years ago, 
my talented young parishioner, Mr. 
Biglow, came to me and submitted to 
my animadversions the first of his po- 
ems which he intended to commit to 
the more hazardous trial of a city news- 
paper, it never so much as entered my 
imagination to conceive that his pro- 
ductions would ever be gathered into a 
fair volume, and ushered into the au- 
gust presence of the reading public by 
myself. So little are we short-sighted 
mortals able to predict the event ! I 
confess that there is to me a quite new 
satisfaction in being associated (though 
only as sleeping partner) in a book 
which can stand by itself in an indepen- 
dent unity on the shelves of libraries. 
For there is always this drawback from 
the pleasure of printing a sermon, that, 
whereas the queasy stomach of this gen- 
eration will not bear a discourse long 
enough to make a separate volume, 
those religious and godly-minded chil- 
dren (those Samuels, if I may call them 
so) of the brain must at first lie buried 
in an undistinguished heap, and then 
get such resurrection as is vouchsafed 
to them, mummy-wrapped with a score 
of others in a cheap binding, with no 
other mark of distinction than the wf>rd 
''''Miscellaneous^ printed upon the 
back. Far be it from me to claim any 
credit for the quite unexpected popu- 
larity which I am pleased to find these 
bucolic strains have attained unto. If 
I know myself, I am measurably free 
from the itch of vanity ; yet I may be 
allowed to say that I was not backward 
to recognize in them a certain wild, 
puckery, acidulous (sometimes even 
verging toward that point which, in our 
rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor, 
not wholly unpleasing, nor unwhole- 



some, to palates cloyed with the sugari- 
ness of tamed and cultivated fruit. It 
may be, also, that some touches of my 
own, here and there, may have led to 
their wider acceptance, albeit solely 
from my larger experience of literature 
and authorship.* 

I was, at first, inclined to discourage 
Mr. Biglow's attempts, as knowing that 
the desire to poetize is one of the dis- 
eases naturally incident to adolescence, 
which, if the fitting remedies be not at 
once and with a bold hand applied, may 
become chronic, and render one, who 
might else have become in due time an 
ornament of the social circle, a painful 
object even to nearest friends and rela- 
tives. But thinking, on a further expe- 
rience, that there was a germ of prom- 
ise in him which required only culture 
and the pulling up of weeds from around 
it, I thought it best to set before him 
the acknowledged examples of English 
composition in verse, and leave the rest 
to natural emulation. With this view, 
I accordingly lent him some volumes 
of Pope and Goldsmith, to the assidu- 
ous study of which he promised to de- 
vote his evenings. Not long afterward, 
he brought me some verses written 
upon that model, a specimen of which 
I subjoin, having changed some phra- 
ses of less elegancy, and a few rhymes 
objectionable to the cultivated ear. 
The poem consisted of childish reminis- 
cences, and the sketches which follow 



* The reader curious in such matters may 
refer (if he can find them) to "A Sermon 
preached on the Anniversary of the Dark 
Day," ;< An Artillery Election Sermon," " A 
Discourse on the Late Eclipse," " Dorcas, a 
Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam 
Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experience 
Tidd, Esq.," &c, &c. 



INTRODUCTION. 



i75 



will not seem destitute of truth to those 
whose fortunate education began in a 
country village. And, first, let us hang 
up his charcoal portrait of the school- 
dame. 

"Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now. I see 
The humble school-house of my A, B, C, 
Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his 

tire, 
Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, 
Then all together, when the signal came, 
Dicharged their a-b abs against the dame. 
Daughter of Danaus, who could daily pour 
In treacherous pipkins her Pierian store, 
She, 'mid the volleyed learning firm and calm, 
Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, 
And, to our wonder, could divine at once 
Who flashed the pan, and who was down- 
right dunce. 

"There young Devotion learned to climb 

with ease 
The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, 
And he was most commended and admired 
Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired ; 
Each name was called as many various ways 
As pleased the reader's ear on different days, 
So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, 
Colds in the head, or fifty other things, 
Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a 

week 
To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, 
The vibrant accent skipping here and there, 
Just as it pleased invention or despair ; 
No controversial Hebraist was the Dame ; 
With or without the points pleased her the 

same ; 
If any tyro found a name too tough, 
And looked at her, pride furnished skill 

enough ; 
She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, 
And cleared the five-barred syllables at a 

spring. 

"Ah, dear old times! there once it was my 

hap, 
Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared 

cap ; 
From books degraded, there I sat at ease, 
A drone, the envy of compulsory bees ; 
Rewards of merit, too, full many a time, 
Each with its woodcut and its moral rhyme, 
And pierced half-dollars hung on ribbons gay 
About my neck — to be restored next day, 
I carried home, rewards as shining then 
As those which deck the lifelong pains of 

men, 
More solid than the redemanded praise 
With which the world beribbons later days. 

" Ah, dear old times ! how brightly ye return ! 
How, rubbed afresh, your phosphor traces 

burn ! 
The ramble schoolward through dewspark- 

ling meads 



The willow-wands turned Cinderella steeds ; 
The impromptu pinbent hook, the deep re- 
morse 

'er the chance-captured minnow's inchlong 

corse ; 
The pockets, plethoric with marbles round, 
That still a space for ball and pegtop found, 
Nor satiate yet, could manage to confine 
Horsechestnuts, flagroot, and the kite's 

wound twine, 
And, like the prophet's carpet could take in, 
Enlarging still, the popgun's magazine ; 
The dinner carried in the small tin pail, 
Shared with the dog, whose most beseeching 

tail 
And dripping tongue and eager ears belied 
The assumed indilference of canine pride ; 
The caper homeward, shortened if the cart 
Of Neighbor Pomeroy, trundling from the 

mart, 
O'ertook me, — then, translated to the seat 

1 praised the steed, how stanch he was and 

fleet, 
While the bluff farmer, with superior grin, 
Explained where horses should be thick, 

where thin, 
And warned me (joke he always had in store) 
To- shun a beast that four white stockings 

wore. 
What a fine natural courtesy was his ! 
His nod was pleasure, and his full bow bliss ; 
How did his well-thumbed hat, with ardor 

rapt, 
Its decorous curve to every rank adapt ! 
How did it graduate with a courtly ease 
The whole long scale of social differences, 
Yet so gave each his measure running o'er, 
None thought his own was less, his neighbor's 

more ; 
The squire was flattered, and the pauper 

knew 
Old times acknowledged ' neath the thread- 
bare blue ! 
Dropped at the corner of the embowered 

lane, 
Whistling I wade the knee-deep leaves again, 
While eager Argus, who has missed all day 
The sharer of his condescending play, 
Comes leaping onward with a Dark elate 
Arm boisterous tail to greet me at the gate ; 
That I was true in absence to our love 
Let the thick dog's-ears in my primer 

prove." 

I add only one further extract, which 
will possess a melancholy interest to all 
such as have endeavored to glean the 
materials of revolutionary history from 
the lips of aged persons, who took a 
part in the actual making of it, and, 
finding the manufacture profitable, con- 
tinued the supply in an adequate pro* 
portion to the demand. 

" Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad 
His slow artillery up the Concord road, 



i 7 6 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, 
As, every time he told it, Joe drew near 
To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, 
The original scene to bolder tints gave way ; 
Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double- 
quick 
Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured 

stick, 
And, ere death came the lengthening tale to 

lop, 
Himselt had fired, and seen a red-coat drop ; 
Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling 

fight 
Had squared more nearly with his sense of 

right, 
And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale, 
Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." 

I do not know that the foregoing ex- 
tracts ought not to be called my own 
rather than Mr. Biglow's, as, indeed, he 
maintained stoutly that my file had left 
nothing of his in them. I should nut, 
perhaps, have felt entitled to take so 
great liberties with them, had I not 
more than suspected an hereditary vein 
of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor 
having written a Latin poem in the 
Harvard Gratulatio on the accession of 
George the Third. Suffice it to say, 
that, whether not satisfied with such 
limited approbation as I could con- 
scientiously bestow, or from a sense of 
natural inaptitude, certain it is that my 
young friend could never be induced to 
any further essays in this kind. He 
affirmed that it was to him like writing 
in a foreign tongue, — that Mr. Pope's 
versification was like the regular tick- 
ing of one of Willard's clocks, in which 
one could fancy, after long listening, a 
certain kind of rhythm or tune, but 
which yet was only a poverty-stricken 
tick, tick, after all, — and that he had 
never seen a sweet-water on a trellis 
growing so fairly, or in forms so pleas- 
ing to his eye, as a fox-grape over a 
scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I 
know not what, to the effect that the 
sweet-water would only be the more dis- 
figured by having its leaves starched 
and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so 
he called him) hardly looked right with 
his mane and tail in curl-papers. These 
and other such opinions I did not 
long strive to eradicate, attributing 
them rather to a defective education 
and senses untuned by too long familiar- 



ity with purely natural objects, than to 
a perverted moral sense. I was the 
more inclined to this leniency since 
sufficient evidence was not to seek, that 
his verses, as wanting as they certainly 
were in classic polish and point, had 
somehow taken hold of the public ear 
in a surprising manner. So, only set- 
ting him right as to the quantity of the 
proper name Pegasus, I left him to fol- 
low the bent of his natural genius. 

Yet could I not surrender him wholly 
to the tutelage of the pagan (which, 
literally interpreted, signifies village) 
muse without yet a further effort for his 
conversion, and to this end I resolved 
that whatever of poetic fire yet burned 
in myself, aided by the assiduous bel- 
lows of correct models, should be put 
in requisition. Accordingly, when my 
ingenious young parishioner brought to 
my study a copy of verses which he 
had written touching the acquisition of 
territory resulting from the Mexican 
war, and the folly of leaving the ques- 
tion of slavery or freedom to the ad- 
judication of chance, I did myself indite 
a short fable or apologue after the man- 
ner of Gay and Prior, to the end that 
he might see how easily even such sub- 
jects as he treated of were capable of a 
more refined style and more elegant ex- 
pression. Mr. Biglow's production was 
as follows : — 

THE TWO GUNNERS, 



Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe, 
One Sundy mornin' 'greed to go 
Agunnin' soon's the bells wuz done 
And meetin' finally begun, 
So'st no one would n't be about 
Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out. 

Joe did n't want to go a mite ; 

He felt ez though 'twarnt skeercely right, 

But, when his doubts he went to speak on, 

Isrel he up and called him Deacon, 

An' kep' apokin' fun like sin 

An' then arubbin' on it in, 

Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrong 

Than bein' laughed at, went along. 

Past noontime they went trampin' round 
An' nary thing to pop at found, 
Till, fairly tired o' their spree, 
They leaned their guns agin a tree, 



INTRODUCTION. 



177 



An jest ez they wuz settin' down 

To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' 

And see (across lots in a pond 

That warn't mor'n twenty rod beyond), 

A goose that on the water sot 

Ez ef awaitin' to be shot. 

Isrel he ups and grabs his gun ; 

Sez he, " By ginger, here s some fun ! 

*' Don't fire,' - sez Joe, " it aint no use, 

Thet *s Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose " ; 

Sez Isrel, " I don't care a cent, 

I 've sighted an' I '11 let her went ; 

Ban* 1 went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped 

His wings a spell, an* quorked, an' dropped. 

Sez Joe, " I would n't ha' been hired 
At that poor critter to ha' fired, 
But, sence it 's clean gin up the ghost, 
We '11 hev the tallest kind o' roast ; 
I guess our waistbands '11 be tight 
'Fore it comes ten o'clock ternight." 

" I won't agree to no such bender," 
Sez Isrel, " keep it tell it 's tender'^ 
*T aint wuth a snap afore it 's ripe." 
Sez Joe, " I 'd jest ez lives eat tripe ; 
You air a buster ter suppose 
I 'd eat what makes me hoi' my nose ! " 

So they disputed to an' fro 
Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe, 
" Don't le's stay here an' play the fool, 
Le's wait till both on us git cool, 
Jest for a day or two le's hide it 
An" then toss up an' so decide it." 
" Agreed ! " ses, Joe, an' so they did, 
An'' the ole goose wuz safely hid. 

Now 't wuz the hottest kind o' weather, 
An when at last they come together, 
It did n't signify which won, 
Fer all the mischief hed ben done : 
The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul, 
Joe would n't ha' tetched it with a pole ; 
But Isrel kind o' liked the smell on't 
An' made his dinner very well on't. 

My own humble attempt was in man- 
ner and form following, and I print it 
here, I sincerely trust, out of no vain- 
glory, but solely with the hope of doing 
good. 

LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN. 

A TALE. 

BY HOMER WILBUR, A. If. 

Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair. 
Together dwelt (no matter where), 
To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one, 
Had 1* t a house a. id (arm in common* 
The two in principles and habits 



Were different as rats from rabbits ; 

Stout Farmer North, with frugal care, 

Laid up provision for his heir, 

Not scorning with hard sun-browned hands 

To scrape acquaintance with his lands ; 

Whatever thing he had to do 

He did, and made it pay him, too ; 

He sold his waste stone by the pound, 

His drains made water-wheels spin round, 

His ice in summer-time he sold, 

His wood brought profit when 't was cold, 

He dug and delved from morn till night, 

Strove to make profit square with right, 

Lived on his means, cut no great dash, 

And paid his debts in honest cash. 

On tother hand, his brother South 

Lived very much from hand to mouth, 

Played gentleman, nursed dainty hands, 

Borrowed North's money on his lands, 

And culled his morals and his graces 

From cock-pits, bar-rooms, fighcs, and races ; 

His sole work in the farming line 

Was keeping droves of long-legged swine, 

Which brought great bothers and expenses 

To North in looking after fences, 

And, when they happened to break through, 

Cost him both time and temper too, 

For South insisted it was plain 

He ought to drive them home again, 

And North consented to the work 

Because he loved to buy cheap pork. 

Meanwhile, South's swine increasing fast, 
His farm became too small at last, 
So, having thought the matter over, 
And feeling bound to live in clover 
And never pay the clover's worth. 
He said one day to Brother North : — 

" Our families are both increasing, 
And, though we labor without ceasing, 
Our produce soon will be too scant 
To keep our children out of want ; 
They who wish fortune to be lasting 
Must be both prudent and forecasting ; 
We soon shall need more land ; a lot 
I know, that cheaply can be bo't ; 
You lend the cash, I '11 buy the acres, 
And we '11 be equally partakers." 

Poor North, whose Anglo-Saxon blood 
Gave him a hankering after mud, 
Wavered a moment, then consented, 
And, when the cash was paid, repented ; 
To make the new land worth a pin, 
Thought he, it must be all fenced in, 
For, if South 's swine once get the run on't 
No kind of farming can be done on't ; 
If that don't suit the other side, 
'T is best we instantly divide. 

But somehow South could ne'er incline 
This way or that to run the line, 
And always found some new pretence 
'Gainst setting the division fence ; 
At last he said : — 



i 7 8 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



" For peace's sake, 
Liberal concessions I will make ; 
Though I believe, upon my soul, 
I 've a iust title to the whole, 
I '11 make an offer which I call 
Gen'rous, — we '11 have no fence at all ; 
Then both of us, whene'er we choose, 
Can take what part we want to use ; 
If you should chance to need it first, 
Pick you the best, I '11 take the worst." 

'* Agreed ! " cried North ; thought he, This 

With wheat and rye I '11 sow it all ; 
In that way I shall get the start, 
And South may whistle for his part. 
So thought, so done, the field was sown, 
And, winter having come and gone, 
Sly North walked blithely forth to spy, 
The progress of his wheat and rye ; 
Heavens, what a sight ! his brother's swine 
Had asked themselves all out to dine, 
Such grunting, munching, rooting, shoving, 
The soil seemed all alive and moving, 
As for his grain, such work they d made 

on't, 
He could n't spy a single blade on't. 

Off in a rage he rushed to South, 

"My wheat and rye" — grief choked his 

mouth ; 
" Pray don't mind me," said South, " but 

plant 
All of the new land that you want " ; 
"Yes, but your hogs," cried North ; 

" The grain 
Won't hurt them," answered South again ; 
" But they destroy my grain " ; 

V No doubt ; 
'T is fortunate you 've found it out ; 
Misfortunes teach, and only they, 
You must not sow it in their way " ; 
" Nay, you," says North, " must keep them 

out " ; 
" Did I create them with a snout?" 
Asked South demurely ; " as agreed, 
The land is open to your seed, 
And would you fain prevent my pigs 
From running there their harmless rigs ? 
God knows I view this compromise 
With not the most approving eyes ; 
I gave up my unquestioned rights 
For sake of quiet days and nights ; 
I offered then, you know 't is true, 
To cut the piece of land in two." 
" Then cut it now," growls North ; 

" Abate 
Your heat," says South, " 't is now too late ; 
I offered you the rocky corner. 
But you, of your own good the scorner, 
Refused to take it ; I am sorry ; 
No doubt you might have found a quarry, 
Perhaps a gold-mine, for aught I know, 



Containing heaps of native rhino ; 
You can't expect me to resign 
My right " — 

"But where," quoth North, "are mine?" 
" Your rights," says tother, "well, that's 

funny, 
/ bought the land " — 

"/paid the money"; 
" That," answered South, * is from the point, 
The ownership, you '11 grant, is joint ; 
I 'm sure my only hope and tru.st is 
Not law so much as abstract justice, 
Though, you remember, 't was agreed 
That so and so — consult the deed ; 
Objections now are out of date, 
They might have answered once, but Fate 
Quashes them at the point we 've got to ; 
Obsla pri)icipiis, that 's my motto." 
So saying, South began to whistle 
And looked as obstinate as gristle, 
While North went homeward, each brown 

paw 
Clenched like a knot of natural law, 
And all the while, in either ear, 
Heard something clicking wondrous clear. 

To turn now to other matters, there 
are two things upon which it would 
seem fitting to dilate somewhat more 
largely in this place, — the Yankee 
character and the Yankee dialect. 
And, first, of the Yankee character, 
which has wanted neither open malign- 
ers, nor even more dangerous enemies 
in the persons of those unskilful paint- 
ers who have given to it that hardness, 
angularity, and want of proper perspec- 
tive, which, in truth, belonged, not to 
their subject, but to their own niggard 
and unskilful pencil. 

New England was not so much the 
colony of a mother country, as a Hagar 
driven forth into the wilderness. The 
little self-exiled band which came 
hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, 
but to found a democracy. They came 
that they might have the privilege to 
work and pray, to sit upon hard benches 
and listen to painful preachers as long 
as they would, yea, even unto thirty- 
seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. 
And surely, if the Greek might boast 
his Thermopylae, where three hundred 
men fell in resisting the Persian, we 
may well be proud of our Plymouth 
Rock, where a handful of men, womet^ 
and children not merely faced, but van- 



INTR OD UC TION. 



170 



qjished, winter, famine, the wilder- 
ness, and the yet more invincible storge 
that drew them back to the green island 
far away. These fou*d no lotus grow- 
ing upon the surly shore, the taste of 
which could make them forget their 
little native Ithaca ; nor were they so 
wanting to themselves in faith as to 
burn their ship, but could see the fair 
west wind belly the homeward sail, and 
then turn unrepining to grapple with 
the terrible Unknown. 

As Want was the prime foe these 
hardy exodists had to fortress them- 
selves against, so it is little^ wonder if 
that traditional feud is long in wearing 
out of the stock. The wounds of the 
old warfare were long a-healing, and an 
east wind of hard times puts a new 
ache in every one of them. Thrift was 
the first lesson in their hornbook, 
pointed out, letter after letter, by the 
Jean finger of the hard schoolmaster, 
Necessity. Neither were those plump, 
rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hith- 
er, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, ear- 
nest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling 
with the Lord in prayer, and who had 
taught Satan to dread the new Puritan 
hug. Add two hundred years' influ- 
ence of soil, climate, and exposure, 
wkh its necessary result of idiosyncra- 
sies, and we have the present Yankee, 
fuk of expedients, half-master of all 
trades, inventive in all but the beauti- 
ful, full of shifts, not yet capable of com- 
fort, armed at all points against the 
old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good 
at patching, not so careful for what is 
best as for what will do, with a clasp to 
his purse and a button to his pocket, 
not skilled to build against Time, as in 
eld countries, but against sore-pressing 
Need, accustomed to move the world 
with no ttov <ttu> but his own two feet, 
and no lever but his own long forecast. 
A strange hybrid, indeed, did circum- 
stance beget, here in the New World, 
upon the old Puritan stock, and the 
earth never before saw such mystic- 
practicalism, such niggard-geniality, 
such calculating-fanaticism, such cast- 
iron-enthusiasm, such sour-faced-hu- 
mor, such close-fisted-generosity. This 



new Greeculus esuriens will make a 
living out of anything. He will invent 
new trades as weil as tools. Hie, brain 
is his capital, and he will get education 
at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernan- 
dez, and he would make a spelling- 
book first, and a salt-pan afterward. 
In ceelum, jusseris, tint, — or the other 
way either, — it is all one, so anything 
is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, 
speculative Jonathan is more like the 
Englishman of two centuries ago than 
John Bull himself is. He has lost 
somewhat in solidity, has become fluent 
and adaptable, but more of the original 
groundwork of character remains. He 
feels more at home with Fulke Greville, 
Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George 
Herbert, and Browne, than with his 
modern English cousins. He is nearer 
than John, by at least a hundred years, 
to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, 
and the time when, if ever, there were 
true Englishmen. John Bull has suf- 
fered the idea of the Invisible to be 
very much fattened out of him. Jona- 
than is conscious still that he lives in 
the world of the Unseen as well as of 
the Seen. To move John you must 
make your fulcrum of solid beef and 
pudding ; an abstract idea will do for 
Jonathan. 



* # * TO THE INDULGENT 
READER. 

MY friend, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, having 
been seized with a dangerous fit of illness, 
before this Introduction had passed through 
the press, and being incapacitated for all 
literary exertion, sent to me his notes, mem- 
oranda, &c, and requested me to fashion 
them into some shape more fitting for the 
general eye. This, owing to the fragmentary 
and disjointed state of his manuscripts, I 
have felt wholly unable to do ; yet, being un- 
willing that the reader should be deprived of 
such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more 
finished, and not well discerning how to 
segregate these from the rest, I have con- 
cluded to send them all to the press precisely 
as they are. 

COLUMBUS NYE, 
Pastor of a Church in Bungtxrwn 
* Corner. 



i8o 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



It remains to speak of the Yankee 
dialect. And, first, it may be premised, 
in a general way, that any one much 
read in the writings of the early colonists 
need not be told that the far greater 
share of the words and phrases now 
esteemed peculiar to New England, 
and local there, were brought from the 
mother country. A person familiar with 
the dialect of certain portions of Mas- 
sachusetts will not fail to recognize, in 
ordinary discourse, many words now 
noted in English vocabularies as ar- 
chaic, the greater part of which were in 
common use about the time of the King 
James translation of the Bible. Shake- 
speare stands less in need of a glossary 
to most New Englanders than to many 
a tntive of the Old Country. The pe- 
culiarities of our speech, however, are 
rapidly wearing out. As there is no 
country where reading is so universal 
and newspapers are so multitudinous, 
so no phrase remains long local, but is 
transplanted in the mail-bags to every 
remotest corner of the land. Conse- 
quently our dialect approaches nearer 
to uniformity than that of any other 
nation. 

The English have complained of us 
for coining new words. Many of those 
so stigmatized were old ones by them 
forgotten, and all make now an un- 
questioned part of the currency, wher- 
ever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, 
we have a right to make new words, as 
they are needed by the fresh aspects 
under which life presents itself here in 
the New World ; and, indeed, wherever 
a language is alive, it grows. It might 
be questioned whether we could not 
establish a stronger title to the owner- 
ship of the English tongue than the 
mother-islanders themselves. Here, 
past all question, is to be its great home 
and centre. And not only is it already 
spoken here by greater numbers, but 
with a far higher popular average of 
correctness than in Britain. The great 
writers of it, too, we might claim as 
ours, were ownership to be settled by 
the number of readers and lovers. 

As regards the provincialisms to be 
met with in this volume, I may say 



that the reader will not find one which 
is not (as I believe) either native or im- 
ported with the early settlers, nor one 
which I have not, with my own ears, 
heard in familiar use. In the metrical 
portion of the book, I have endeavored 
to adapt the spelling as nearly as pos- 
sible to the ordinary mode of pronunci- 
ation Let the reader who deems me 
over-particular remember this caution 
of Martial : — 

" Quern recitas, metis est, O Fidcntine, libel' 
I us ; 
Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus." 

A few further explanatory remarks 
will not be impertinent. 

I shall barely lay down a few general 
rules for the reader's guidance. 

i. The genuine Yankee never gives 
the rou_, r h sound to the r when he can 
help it, and often displays considerable 
ingenuity in avoiding it even before a 
vowel. 

2. He seldom sounds the final g, a 
piece of self-denial, if we consider his 
partialitv for nasals. The same of the 
final d, as hart 1 and stan for Aa rid and 
stand. 

3. The h in such words as ivhtle y 
ivhen % iv'iere, he omits altogether. 

4. In regard to a, he shows some in- 
consistency, sometimes giving a close 
and obscure sound, as hev for have, 
hendy for handy, ez for as, thet for 
that, and as;ain giving it the broad 
sound it has in father, as hansome for 
handsome. 

5. To the sound on he prefixes an e 
(hard to exemplify otherwise than oral- 
ly)- 

The following passage in Shakespeare 
he would recite thus : — 

" Neow is the winta uv eour discontent 

Med glorious summi by this sun o* Yock, 

An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour 
heouse 

In the deeo buzzum o' the oshin buried ; 

Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious 
wreaths ; 

Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce ; 

Eour starn alarums changed to merry meet- 
ins, 

Eour dreffle marches to delighfle masures. 



INTRODUCTION. 



181 



Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled 

front, 
An' neow, instid o' raountin' barebid steeds 
To fright the souls o' ferlie edverseries, 
He capers nimly in a lady's chamber, 
To the lascivious pleasin uv a loot." 

6. A u, in such words as daughter 
and slaughter, he pronounces ah. 

7. To the dish thus seasoned add a 
drawl ad libitum. 

[Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely 
fragmentary. — C. N.] 

a. Unable to procure a likeness of 
Mr. Biglow, I thought the curious read- 
er might be gratified with a sight of 
the editorial effigies. And here a choice 
between two was offered, — the one a 
profile (entirely black) cut by Doyle, 
the other a portrait painted by a native 
artist of much promise. The first of 
these seemed wanting in expression, 
and in the second a slight obliquity of 
the visual organs has been heightened 
(perhaps from an over-desire of force 
on the part of the artist) into too close 
an approach to actual strabismus. This 
slight divergence in my optical appara- 
tus from the ordinary model — however 
I may have been taught to regard it in 
the light of a mercy rather than a cross, 
since it enabled me to give as much of 
directness and personal application to 
my discourses as met the wants of my 
congregation, without risk of offending 
any by being supposed to have him or 
her in my eye (as the saying is) — 
seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur a sufficient 
objection to the engraving of the afore- 
said painting. We read of many who 
either absolutely refused to allow the 
copying of their features, as especially 
did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the 
ancients, not to mention the more mod- 
ern instances of Scioppius, Palaeottus, 
Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, 
or were indifferent thereto, as Crom- 
well. 

/3. Yet was Cassar desirous of conceal- 
ing his baldness. Per contra, my Lord 
Protector's carefulness in the matter of 
his wart might be cited. Men gener- 
ally more desirous of being improved in 



their portraits than characters. Shall 
probably find very unflattered likeness- 
es of ourselves in Recording Angel's 
gallery. 

y. Whether any of our national 
peculiarities may be traced to our 
use of stoves, as a certain close- 
ness of the lips in pronunciation, and 
a smothered smoulderingness of dis- 
position seldom roused to open flame? 
An unrestrained intercourse with fire 
probably conducive to generosity and 
hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans 
used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz 
reports, Hakluyt, III., 468, —but Pop- 
ish priests not always reliable authority. 

To-day picked my Isabella grapes. 
Crop injured by attacks of rose-bug in 
the spring. Whether Noah was justi- 
fiable in preserving this class of in- 
sects ? 

S. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. 
Tolerably certain that there was never 
a poet among his ancestors. An ordi- 
nation hymn attributed to a maternal 
uncle, but perhaps a sort of production 
not demanding the creative faculty. 

His grandfather a painter of the gran- 
diose or Michael Angelo school. Sel- 
dom painted objects smaller than 
houses or barns, and these with un- 
common expression. 

e. Of the Wilburs no complete pedi- 
gree. The crest said to be a wildboar y 
whence, perhaps, the name.(?) A con- 
nection with the Earls of Wilbraham 
(quasi wild boar ham) might be made 
out. This suggestion worth following 

up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect , 

had issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Ex- 
pect, 4. Ruhamah, 5. Desire. 

" Hear lyes y e bodye of Mrs Expect Wilber, 
Y e crewell salvages they kil'd her 
Together w tn other Christian soles eleaven, 
October y e ix daye, 1707. 
Y e stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore 
And now expeacts me on y e other shore : 
I live in hope her soon to join ; • 
Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine." 
Front Gravestone in Pekttssett, North 
Parish. 



182 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



This is unquestionably the same John 
who afterward (171 1) married fabitha 
Hagg or Ragg. 

But if this were the case, she seems 
to have died early ; for only three years 
alter, namely, 1714, we have evidence 
that he married Winifred, daughter of 
Lieutenant Tipping. 

He seems to have been a man of sub- 
stance, for we find him in 1696 convey- 
ing "one undivided eightieth part of a 
salt-meadow " in Yabbok, and he com- 
manded a sloop in 1702. 

Those who doubt the importance of 
genealogical studies fuste potius quam 
argumento erudieiidi. 

I trace him as far as 1723, and there 
lose him. In that year he was chosen 
selectman. 

No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown 
when new hearse-house was built, 1802. 

He was probably the son of John, 
who came from Bilham Comit. Salop, 
circa 1642. 

This first John was a man of consid- 
erable importance, being twice men- 
tioned with the honorable prefix of Mr. 
in the town records. Name spelt with 
two /-s. 



" Hear lyeth y e bod [stone unhappily 

broken.] 
Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [/ inclose this in 

brackets as doubtful. To me it seems 

clea r. ] 
Ob't die [illegible ; looks like xviii.] 

iii [prob. 1693.] 

paynt 
deseased seinte : 
A friend and [fath]er untoe all y e opreast, 
Hee gave y€ wicked families noe reast, 
When Sat [an bl]ewe his Antino:nian blaste. 
Wee clon^ to [Willber as a stcadfjast maste. 
[A]gaynst y e horrid Qua[kersl : . . . 

It is greatly to be lamented that this 
curious epitaph is mutilated. It is said 
that the sacrilegious British soldiers 
made a target of this stone during the 
war of Independence. How odious an 
animosity which pauses not at the 
grave ! How brutal that which spares 
not the monuments of authentic his- 
tory ! This is not improbably from the 
pen of Rev Moody Pyram, who is 
mentioned by Hubbard as having been 
noted for a silver vein of poetry. If 
his papers be still extant, a copy might 
possibly be recovered. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



No. I. 
A LETTER 

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM 
TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKING- 
HAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COU- 
RIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, 
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW. 

JAYLEM, june 1846. 

Mister Eddyter : — Our Hosea 
wuz down to Boston last week, and he 
see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round 
as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 
2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him 
like all nater the sarjunt he thout 
Hosea hed n't gut his i teeth cut cos 
he looked a kindo 's though he 'd jest 
com down, so he cal'lated to hook him 
in, but Hosy wood n't take none o' his 
sarse for all he hed much as 20 Roos- 
ter's tales stuck onto his hat and eena- 
most enuf brass a bobbin up and down 
on his shoulders and figureed onto his 
coat and trousis, let alone wut nater 
hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 
pounder out on. 

wal, Hosea he com home consider- 
abal riled, and arter I 'd gone to bed I 
heern Him a thrashin round like a 
short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old 
Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, 
ses she, our Hosee 's gut the chollery 
or suthin anuther ses she, don't you 
Bee skeered, ses I, he 's oney amakin 
pottery* ses i, he 's oilers on hand at 
that ere busynes like Da & martin, 
and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he 
cum down stares full chizzle, hare on 

* Aut insanit, aut -versos facit. — H. W. 



eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite 
of to go reed his varses to Parson Wil- 
bur bein he haint aney grate shows o' 
book larnin himself, bimeby he cum 
back and sed the parson wuz dreffle 
tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, 
and said they wuz True grit. 

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 
'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' 
slicked off sum o' the last varses, but 
he told Hosee he did n't want to put his 
ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, 
bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, 
and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a 
nuther about Simplex Mundishes or 
sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea 
kind o' did n't hear him, for I never 
hearn o' nobody o' that name in this 
villadge, and I 've lived here man and 
boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and 
thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 
'n I be. 

If you print 'em I wish you 'd jest 
let Tolks know who hosy's father is, cos 
my ant Keziah used to say it 's nater 
to be curus ses she, she aint livin 
though and he 's a likely kind o' lad. 
EZEKIEL BIGLOW. 



Thrash away, you '11 hev to rattle 

On them kittle-drums o' yourn, — 
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle 

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn ; 
Put in stiff, you fifer feller, 

Let folks see how spry you be, — 
Guess you '11 toot till you are yeller 

'Fore you git ahold o' me ! 

Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten, 

Hope it aint your Sunday's best ; — 



i8 4 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Fact ! it takes a sight o' cotton 
To stuff out a soger's chest : 

Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, 
Ef you must wear humps like these, 

Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't, 
It would du ez slick ez grease. 

'T would n't suit them Southun fellers, 

They 're a drefrle graspin' set, 
We must oilers blow the bellers 

Wen they want their irons het ; 
May be it s all right ez preachin', 

But my narves it kind o' grates, 
Wen I see the overreachin' 

O' them nigger-driviu' States. 

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, 

Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth 
(Helped by Yankee renegaders), 

Thru the vartu o' the North ! 
We begin to think it 's nater 

To take sarse an' not be riled ; — 
Who ? d expect to see a tater 

All on eend at bein' biled ? 

Ez fer war, I call it murder, — 

There you hev it plain an' flat ; 
I don't want to go no furder 

Than my Testyment fer that ; 
God hez sed so plump an' fairly, 

It \s ez long ez it is broad, 
An' you 've gut to git up airly 

Ef you want to take in God. 

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers 

Make the thing a grain more right ; 
'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers 

Will excuse ye in His sight ; 
Ef you take a sword an' dror it, 

An' go stick a feller thru, 
Guv'ment aint to answer for it, 

God '11 send the bill to you. 

Wut 's the use o' meetin'-goin' 

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 
Ef it 's right to go amowin' 

Feller-men like oats an' rye? 
I dunno but wut it 's pooty 

Trainin' round in bobtail coats, — 
But it 's curus Christian dooty 

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. 

They may talk o' Freedom's airy 
Tell they 're pupple in the face, — 



It 's a grand gret cemetary 

Fer the barthrights of our race ; 

They jest want this Californy 
So 's to lug new slave-states in 

To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, 
An' to plunder ye like sin. 

Aint it cute to see a Yankee 

Take sech everlastin' pains, 
All to git the Devil's thankee 

Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? 
Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez riggers, 

Clear ez one an' one make two, 
Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers 

Want to make wite slaves o' you. 

Tell ye jest the eend I 've come to 

Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, 
An' it makes a handy sum, tu, 

Any gump could lam by heart ; 
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman 

Hev one glory an' one shame, 
Ev'y thin' tbtt 's done inhuman 

Injers all on 'em the same, 

'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks 

You 're agoin' to git your right, 
Nor by lookin' down on black folks 

Coz you 're put upon by wite ; 
Slavery aint o' nary color, 

'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, 
All it keers fer in a feller 

'S jest to make him fill its pus. 

Want to tackle me in, du ye ? 

I expect you '11 hev to wait ; 
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye 

You '11 begin to kal'late ; / 
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' 

All the carkiss from your bones, 
Coz you helped to give a lickin' 

To them poor half- Spanish drones? 

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy 

Wether I 'd be sech a goose 
Ez to jine ye, — guess you 'd fancy 

The etarnal bung wuz loose ! 
She wants me fer home consumption, 

Let alone the hay 's to mow, — 
Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption, 

You 've a darned long row to hoe. 

Take them ecitors thet 's crowin' 
Like a cock erel three months old, — 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



185 



Don't ketch any on 'em goin', 
Though they be so blasted bold ; 

Aint they a prime lot o' fellers? 

'Fore they think on 't they will sprout 

(Like a peach thet 's got the yellers), 
With the meanness bustin' out. 

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' 

Bigger pens to cram with slaves, 
Help the men thet's oilers dealin' 

Insults on your fathers' graves ; 
Help the strong to grind the feeble, 

Help the many agin the few, 
Help the men thet call your people 

Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' 
crew ! 

Massachusetts, God forgive her, 

She 's akneelin' with the rest, 
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever 

In her grand old eagle-nest ; 
She thet ough' to stand so fearless 

Wile the wracks are round her hurled, 
Holdin' up a beacon peerless 

To the oppressed of all the world ! 

Haint they seld your colored seamen? 

Haint they made your env'ys wiz? 
WufW make ye act like freemen ? 

Wtd '11 git your dander riz ? 
Come, I '11 tell ye wut I 'm thinkin' 

Is our dooty in this fix, 
They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' 

In the days o' seventy-six. 

Clang the bells in every steeple, 

Call all true men to disown 
The tradoocers of our people, 

The enslavers o' their own ; 
Let our dear old Bay State proudly 

Put the trumpet to her mouth, 
Let her ring this messidge loudly 

In the ears of all the South : — 

" I '11 return ye good fer evil 

Much ez we frail mortils can, 
But I wun't go help the Devil 

Makin' man the cus o' man ; 
Call me coward, call me traiter, 

Jest ez suits your mean idees, — 
Here I stand a tyrant-hater, 

An' the friend o' God an' Peace ! " 

Ef I 'd my way I hed ruther 
We should go to work an' part, — 



They take one way, we take t'other, — 
Guess it would n't break my heart ; 

Man hed ough' to put asunder 
Them thet God has noways jined; 

An' I should n't gretly wonder 
Ef there 's thousands o' my mind. 

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I 
conceive to have been thac individual who is 
mentioned in the Book of Job as going to 
and f}'0 in the earth, and ivalking np and 
down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to 
have been a bishop, but to me that other 
calling would appear more congenial. The 
sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who es- 
teemed the first-born of Adam to be the 
most worthy, not only because of that privi- 
lege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he 
was able to overcome and slay his younger 
brother. That was a wise saying of the fa- 
mous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, 
that it was impossible for men to serve 
Mars and Christ at the same time. Yet in 
time past the profession of arms was judged 
to be k<xt' egoxw that of a gentleman, nor 
does this opinion want for strenuous uphold- 
ers even in our day. Must we suppose, 
then, that the profession of Christianity was 
only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford 
an opening for plebeian ambition ? Or shall 
we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pome* 
ranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Ko- 
nigsmark s chief instrument in the murder of 
Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation 
has been arranged with an especial eye to 
the necessities of the upper classes, and that 
" God would consider a gentleman and deal 
with him suitably to the condition and pro- 
fession he had placed him in " ? It may be 
said of us all, Exemplo plus quam ration* 
vivimus. — H. W.] 



No. II. 
A LETTER 

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE 
HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF 
THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A 
LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRI- 
VATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGI- 
MENT. 

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not origi- 
nally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking 
it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adorn- 
ment, translated it, so to speak, into his own 
vernacular tongue. This is not the time to 
consider the question, whether rhyme be a 
mode of expression natural to the human 



i86 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



race. If leisure from other and more im- 
portant avocations be granted, I will handle 
the matter more at large in an appendix to 
the present volume. In this place I will 
barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed 
in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a 
fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even 
rhyme, in which natural predisposition we 
may trace the three degrees through which 
our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmina- 
tion in the poetry of Pope. I would not be 
understood as questioning in these remarks 
that pious theory which supposes that chil- 
dren, if left entirely to themselves, would 
naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the 
authority of one experiment is claimed, and 
I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire 
its establishment, inasmuch as the acquire- 
ment of that sacred tongue would there- 
by be facilitated. I am aware that Herodo- 
tus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to 
have been in favor of a dialect of the Phry- 
gian. But, beside the chance that a trial of 
this importance would hardly be blessed to 
a Pagan monarch whose only motive was 
curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the 
comparatively recent investigation of James 
the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this 
prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though 
a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated 
attendant on the religious exercises of my 
congregation. I consider my humble efforts 
prospered in that not one of my sheep hath 
ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save 
for the comparatively innocent diversion of 
a militia training. Not that my flock are 
backward to undergo the hardships of de- 
foisive warfare. They serve cheerfully in 
the great army which fights even unto death 
pro arts et focis, accoutred with the spade, 
the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling- 
book, and other such effectual weapons 
against want and ignorance and unthrift. I 
have taught them (under God) to esteem our 
human institutions as but tents of a night, 
to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle 
to her lips and sounds a march to the heights 
of wider-viewed intelligence and more per- 
fect organization. — H. W.] 

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Bil- 
let was writ hum by a Yung feller of 
our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to 
goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a 
Drum and fife, it ain't Nater for a 
feller to let on that he 's sick o' any 
bizness that He went intu off his own 
free will and a Cord, but I rather car- 
late he 's middlin tired o' voluntearin By 
this Time. I bleeve u may put depen- 
dunts on his statemence. For I never 
heered nothin bad on him let Alone his 
havin what Parson Wilbur cals a pong- 
shong for cocktales, and he ses it wux a 



soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter 
the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a 
cocktale onto his hat. 

his Folks gin the letter to me and i 
shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it 
oughter Bee printed, send It to mis- 
ter Buckinum, ses he, i don't oilers 
agree with him, ses he, but by Time,* 
ses he, I du like a feller that aint a 
Feared. 

1 have intusspussed a Few refleck- 
shuns hear and thair. We 're kind o' 
prest with Hayin. 

Ewers respecfly 

HUSHA BIGLOW. 

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like 

our October trainin', 
A chap could clear right out from there 

ef 't only looked liked rainin', 
An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up 

their shappoes with bandanners, 
An' send the insines skootin' to the 

bar-room with their banners 
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a 

feller could cry quarter 
Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu 

much rum an' water. 
Recollect wut fun we hed, you'n' I an' 

Ezry Hollis, 
Up there to Waltham plain last fall, 

along o' the Cornwallis?t 
This sort o' thing aint jest like thet, — 

I wish thet I wuz furder, — X 
Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes 

kind o' low fer murder, 
(Wy I 've worked out to slarterin' some 

fer Deacon Cephas Billins, 
An' in the hardest times there^wuz I 

oilers tetched ten shillins,) 

* In relation to this expression, I cannot 
but think that Mr. Biglow has been too hasty 
in attributing it to me. Though Time be a 
comparatively innocent personage to swear 
by, and though Longinus in his discourse 
ITept T Yi//ovs has commended timely oaths 
as not only a useful but sublime figure of 
speech, yet I have always kept my lips free 
from that abomination. Odi profanum vnl~ 
p-hs, 1 hate your swearing and hectoring fel- 
lows. — H. W. 

t 1 hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as 
I du pizn But their is fun to a cornwallis I 
aint agoin' to deny it. — H. B. 

1 he means N»t quite so fur I guess. — H. 
B. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



i8 7 



There 's sutthin' gits into my throat 
thet makes it hard to swaller, 

It comes so nateral to think about a 
hempen collar ; 

It 's glory, — but, in spite o' all my try- 
in' to git callous, 

I feel a kind o' in a cart aridin' to the 
gallus. 

But wen it comes to beiri killed, — I 
tell ye I felt streaked 

The fust time 't ever I found out wy 
baggonets wuz peaked ; 

Here 's how it wuz : I started out to go 
to a fandango, 

The sentinul he ups an' sez, " Thet 's 
furder 'an you can go." 

"None o' your sarse," sez I ; sez he, 
" Stan' back ! " " Aint you a bus- 
ter?" 

Sez I, " I 'm up to all thet air, I guess 
I 've ben to muster; 

I know wy sentinuls air sot ; you aint 
agoin' to eat us ; 

Caleb haint no monopoly to court the 
seenoreetas ; 

My folks to hum air full ez good ez 
hisn be, by golly ! " 

An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' 
wut would folly, 

The everlastin' cus he stuck his one- 
pronged pitchfork in me 

An' made a hole right thru my close ez 
ef I wuz an in'my. 

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hooraw- 

in' in ole Funnel 
Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to 

our Leftenant Cunnle, 
(It 's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet 

writ the prize peace essay ; 
Thet 's why he did n't list himself along 

o' us, I dessay,) 
An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but 

don't put his foot in it, 
Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's 

principled agin it, — 
Though I myself can't rightly see it 's 

any wtis achokin' on 'em, 
Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or 

with a bagnet pokin' on 'em ; 

* the ignerant creeter means Sekketary ; 
but he oilers stuck to his books like cobbler's 
wax to an ile-stone. — H. B. 



How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like 
Blitz at our lyceum 

Ahaulin'nbbinsfrom his chops so quick 
you skeercely see 'em), 

About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons 
would be handy 

To du the buryin' down here upon the 
Rio Grand) ), 

About our patriotic pas an' our star- 
spangled banner, 

Our country's bird alookin' on an' sing- 
in' out hosanner, 

An' how he (Mister B himself ) wuz 
happy fer Ameriky, — 

I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle 
mite histericky. . 

I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dref- 
fle kind o' privilege 

Atrampin' round thru Boston streets 
among the gutter's drivelage ; 

I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear 
a little drummin', 

An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum 
wuz acomin' 

Wen all on us got suits (darned like 
them wore in the state prison) 

An' every feller felt ez though all Mex- 
ico wuz hisn.* 

This 'ere 's about the meanest place a 

skunk could wal diskiver 
(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut 

we call Salt-river) ; 
The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat 

doos beat all nater, 
I 'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one 

good blue-nose tater ; 
The country here thet Mister Bolles 

declared to be so charmin' 
Throughout is swarmin' with the most 

alarmin' kind o' varmin'. 

He talked about delishis froots, but 
then it wuz a wopper all, 

The holl on 't 's mud an' prickly pears, 
with here an' there a chapparal ; 

* it must be aloud that thare 's a streak of 
nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is i of the 
curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable 
dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch may- 
by) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they 
du and struttin" round in the Reign aspilin' 
his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. 
Ef any thins foolisher and moor dicklus than 
militerry gloary it is milishy gloary. — H. B. 



i88 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust 

you know, a lariat 
Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore 

you can say, " Wut air ye at ? " * 
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it 

may not be irrelevant 
To say 1 've seen a scarabceus pilula-' 

rius t big ez a year old elephant), 
The rigiment come up one day in time 

to stop a red bug 
From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright, 

— 't wuz jest a common cimex 
lectularius. 

One night I started up on eend an' 

thought I wuz to hum agin, 
I heern a horn, thinks I it 's Sol the 

fisherman hez come agin, 
His bellowses is sound enough, — ez 

I 'm a livin' creeter, 
I felt a thing go thru my leg, — 't wuz 

nothin' more 'n a skeeter ! 
Then there 's the yaller fever, tu, they 

call it here el vomito, — 
(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab 

there, I tell ye to le' go my toe ! 
My gracious ! it 's a scorpion thet 's 

took a shine to play with 't, 
1 darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear 

he 'd run away with 't.) 
Afore I come away from hum I hed a 

strong persuasion 
Thet Mexicans worn't human beans,t 

— an ourang outang nation, 

A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' 

never dream on 't arter, 
No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet 

he hed hed to slarter ; 
I 'd an idee thet they were built arter 

the darkie fashion all, 
An' kickin' colored folks about, you 

know, 's a kind o' national ; 

* these fellers are verry proppilly called 
Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the 
ranker and more Herowick tha bekum. — 
H. B. 

t it wuz "tumblebug-" as he Writ it, but 
the parson put the Latten instid. i sed tother 
maid better meeter, but he said tha was ed- 
dykated peepl to Boston and tha would n't 
stan' it no how. idnow as tha wood and id- 
now as tha wood. — H. B. 

X he means human beins, that 's wut he 
means, i spose he kinder thought tha wuz 
human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes 
from. — H. B. 



But wen I jined I wornt so wise ez thet 

air queen o' Sheby, 
Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint 

much diff'rent from wut we be, 
An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' 

thir own dominions, 
Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under 

our eagle's pinions, 
Wich means to take a feller up jest by 

the slack o' 's trowsis 
An' walk him Spanish clean right out 

o' all his homes an' houses; 
Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then 

hooraw fer Jackson ! 
It must be right, fer Caleb sez it 's reg'- 

lar Anglo-saxon. 
The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, 

they piz'n all the water, 
An' du amazin' lots o' things thet is n't 

wut they ough' to; 
Bein' they haint no lead, they make 

their bullets out o' copper 
An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, 

wich Caleb sez aint proper ; 
He sez they 'd ough' to stan' right up 

an' let us pop 'em fairly 
(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he '1[ 

hev to git up airly), 
Thet our nation 's bigger 'n theirn an' 

so its rights air bigger, 
An' thet it 's all to make 'em free thet 

we air pullin' trigger, 
Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee *s abreak- 

in' 'em to pieces, 
An' thet idee 's thet every man doos 

jest wut he damn pleases : 
Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, per- 
haps in some respex I can, 
I know thet "every man " don't mean 

a nigger or a Mexican ; 
An' there 's another thing I know, an 

thet is, ef these creeturs, 
Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto 

State-prison feeturs, 
Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to 

argify an' spout on 't, 
The gals 'ould count the silver spoons 

the minnit they cleared out on 't. 

This goin* ware glory waits ye haint 

one agreeable feetur, 
An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I *d 

home agin short meter ; 
O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, eft 

worn't thet I wuz sartin 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



189 



They 'd let the daylight into me to pay 

me fer desartin ! 
I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest 

to you I may state 
Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore 

they left the Bay-state ; 
Then it wuz " Mister Sawin, sir, you 're 

middlin' well now, be ye? 
Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm 

dreffle glad to see ye " ; 
But now it 's "Ware 's my eppylet? 

here, Sawin, step an' fetch it ! 
An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, 

or, damn ye, you shall ketch it ! " 
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will 

bile so, but by mighty, 
Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 

'em linkum vity, 
I 'd play the rogue's march on their 

hides an' other music follerin' — 
Rut I must close my letter here, fer one 

on 'em 's ahollerin', 
These Anglosaxon ossifers, — wal, taint 

no use ajawin 1 , 
I 'm safe enlisted fer the war, 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN. 



(Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, 
when hath Satan been to seek for attor- 
neys ?) who have maintained that our late in- 
road upon Mexico was undertaken, not so 
much for the avenging- of any national quar- 
rel, as for the spreading of free institutions 
and of Protestantism. Capita vix duabus 
Anticyns medenda ! Verily I admire that 
no pious sergeant among these new Cru- 
saders beheld Martin Luther riding at the 
front of the host upon a tamed pontifical 
bull, as, in that former invasion of Mexico, 
the zealous Gomara (spawn though he were 
of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a 
vision of St. James of Compostella, skewer- 
ing the infidels upon his apostolical lance. 
We read, also, that Richard of the lion heart, 
having gone to Palestine on a similar errand 
of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the 
throats of such Paynims as refused to swallow 
the bread of life (doubtless that they might 
be thereafter incapacitated for swallowing 
the filthy gobbets of Mahound) by angels 
of heaven, who cried to the king and his 
knights, — Seigneurs, tuez ! tuez ! providen- 
tially using the French tongue, as being the 
only one understood by their auditors. This 
would argue tor the pantoglottism of these 
celestial intelligences, while, on the other 
hand, the Devil, teste Cotton Mather, is un- 



versed in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet 
must he be a semeiologist the most expert, 
making himself intelligible to every people 
and kindred by signs ; no other discourse, 
indeed, being needful, than such as the 
mackerel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, 
-who, if other bait be wanting, can by a bare 
bit of white rag at the end of a string capti- 
vate those foolish fishes. Such piscatorial 
oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he 
trails a hat and feather, or a bare feather 
without a hat ; before another, a Presidential 
chair or a tidewaiter's stool, or a pulpit in 
the city, no matter what. To us, dangling 
there over our heads, they seem junkets 
dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops 
dipped in nectar, but, once in our mouths, 
they are all one, bits of fuzzy cotton. 

This, huwever, by the way. It is time now 
revocare gradum. While so many miracles 
of this sort, vouched by eye-witnesses, have 
encouraged the arms of Papists, not to speak 
of Echetlasus at Marathon and those Dioscuri 
(whom we must conclude imps of the pit) who 
sundry times captained the pagan Roman 
soldiery, it is strange that our first American 
crusade was not in some such wise also sig- 
nalized. Yet it is said that the Eord hath 
manifestly prospered our armies. This opens 
the question, whether, when our hands are 
strengthened to make great slaughter of our 
enemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively 
certain that this might is added to us from 
above, or whether some Potentate from an 
opposite quarter may not have a finger in it, 
as there are few pies into which his meddling 
digits are not thrust. Would the Sanctifier 
and Setter-apart of the seventh day have as- 
sisted in a victory gained on the Sabbath, as 
was one in the late war ? Or has that day be- 
come less an object of his especial care since 
the year 1697, when so manifest a providence 
occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in an- 
swer to whose prayers, when he and all on 
shipboard with him were starving, a dolphin 
was sent daily, " which was enough to serve 
'em ; only on Saturdays they still catched a 
couple, and on the Lord's Days they could 
catch none at all " ? Haply they might have 
been permitted, by way of mortification, to 
take some few sculpins (those banes of the 
salt-water angler), which unseemly fish would, 
moreover, have conveyed to them a sym- 
bolical reproof for their breach of the day, 
being known in the rude dialect of our mari- 
ners as Cape Cod Clergymen. 

It has been a refreshment to many nice 
consciences to know that our Chief Magis- 
trate would not regard with eyes of approval 
the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of 
dancing, and I own myself to be so far of 
that mind, that I could not but set my face 
against this Mexican Polka, though danced 
to the Presidential piping with a Gubernato- 
rial second. If ever the country should be 
seized with another such mania de propa- 
ganda Jide, I think it would be wise to nil 



19° 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



our bombshells with alternate copies of the 
Cambridge Platform and the Thirty-nine Ar- 
ticles, which would produce a mixture of the 
highest explosive power, and to wrap every 
one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New 
Testament, the reading of which is denied to 
those who sit in the darkness of Popery. 
Those iron evangelists would thus be able to 
disseminate vital religion and Gospel truth in 
quarters inaccessible to the ordinary mission- 
ary. I have seen lads, uniinpregnate with 
the more sublimated punctiliousness of Wal- 
ton, secure pickerel, taking their unwary 
siesta beneath the lily-pads too nigh the 
surface, with a gun and small shot. Why 
not, then, since gunpowder was unknown in 
the time of the Apostles (not to enter here 
upon the question whether it were discov- 
ered before that period by the Chinese), 
suit our metaphor to the age in which we 
live, and say shooters as well as Jishers of 
men? 

I do much fear that we shall be seized now 
and then with a Protestant fervor, as long as 
we have neighbor Naboths whose wallowings 
in Papistical mire excite our horror in exact 
proportion to the size and desirableness of 
their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some 
earnest Protestants have been made by this 
war, — I mean those who protested against 
it. Fewer they were than I could wish, for 
one might imagine America to have been 
colonized by a tribe of those nondescript 
African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a 
word is No to us all. There is some malfor- 
mation or defect of the vocal organs, which 
either prevents our uttering it at all, or gives 
it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintel- 
ligible. A mouth filled with the national pud- 
ding, or watering in expectation thereof, is 
wholly incompetent to this refractory mono- 
syllable. An abject and herpetic Public 
Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us 
to protest against e corde cordiwn. And by 
what College of Cardinals is this our God's- 
vicar, our binder and looser, elected? Very 
like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, 
and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of 
the grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must 
all be puppets. This thumps the pulpit- 
cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this 
wags the senators tongue. This decides 
what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles 
Christ away into the Apocrypha. Accord- 
ing to that sentence fathered upon Solon, 
Outu> hr\\xo<jiov KO.KOV ep^erat ot/caS' 
ixdaTta. This unclean spirit is skilful to 
assume various shapes. 1 have known it to 
enter my own study and nudge my elbow of 
a Saturday, under the semblance of a wealthy 
member of my congregation. It were a great 
blessing, if every particular of what in the 
sum we call popular sentiment could carry 
about the name of its manufacturer stamped 
legibly upon it. I gave a stab under the fifth 
rib to that pestilent fallacy, — " Our country, 
right or wrong," — by tracing its original to a 



speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of th« 
Bungtown Fencibles. — H. W.J 



No. III. 

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 

J A FEW remarks on the following verses 
will not be out of place. The satire in them 
was not meant to have any personal, but 
only a general, application. Of" the gentle- 
man upon whose letter they were intended 
as a commentary Mr. Biglow had never 
heard, till he saw the letter itself. The po- 
sition of the satirist is oftentimes one which 
he would not have chosen, had the election 
been left to himself. In attacking bad prin- 
ciples, he is obliged to select some individual 
who has made himself their exponent, anil 
in whom they are impersonate, to the end 
that what he says may not, through ambigu- 
ity, be dissipated tenites in auras. For 
what says Seneca? Longum iter per prce- 
cepta, breve et efficace per exempta. A bad 
principle is comparatively harmless while it 
continues to be an abstraction, nor can the 
general mind comprehend it fully till it is 
printed in that large type which all men can 
read at sight, namely, the life and character, 
the sayings and doings, of particular persons. 
It is one of the cunnmgest fetches of Satan, 
that he never exposes nimself directly to our 
arrows, but, still dodging behind this neigh- 
bor or that acquaintance, compels us to 
wound him through them, if at all. He holds 
our affections as hostages, the while he 
patches up a truce with our conscience. 

Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim 
of the true satirist is not to be severe upon 
persons, but only upon falsehood, and, as 
Truth and Falsehood start from the same 
po.nt, and sometimes even go along together 
for a little way, his business is to follow the 
path of the latter after it diverges, and to 
show her floundering in the bog at the end 
of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach of 
satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, 
that she can no more be made ridiculous 
than an oak or a pine. Tha danger of the 
satirist is, that continual use may deaden his 
sensibility to the force of language. He be- 
comes more and more liable to strike harder 
than he knows or intends. He may be care- 
ful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet for- 
get, that, the older they grow, the more 
plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. 
Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is 
insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, 
whose tawdry tinsel glitters through th^it 
dust of the ring which obscures Truth's 
wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes 
thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, 
needed a monitory hand laid on his arm, — 
aliquid sufflamina7tdus erat. I have never 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



191 



thought it good husbandry to water the 
tender plants of reform with aquafortis, yet, 
where so much is to do in the beds, he were 
a sorry gardener who should wage a whole 
day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill 
weeds that make the garden-walks of life 
unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will 
wither them up. Est ars etiam maledice?idi, 
says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to 
say where the graceful gentleness of the 
lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We 
may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. 
Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private 
wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to 
goodness they are asses which are not lions." 
— H. W.J 

Guvener B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter 
his folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, 
An' into nobodv's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

My ! aint it terrible ? Wut shall we du ? 
We can't never choose him o' course, 
— thet 's flat; 
Guess we shall hev to come round, 
(don't you ?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' 
all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 
He 's ben on all sides thet give places 
or pelf; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his 
plan, — 
He 's ben true to one party, — an' 
thet is himself; — 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ; 
He don't vally principle more 'n an 
old cud ; 
Wut did God make us raytional cree- 
turs fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' 
blood? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 



We were gittin' on nicely up here to 
our village, 
With good old idees o' wut 's right 
an' wut a,int, 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin 
war an' pillage, 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best 
mark of a saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing 's an ex- 
ploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be 
took, 
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is 
our country. 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in 
a book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the 
per contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to 
a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argi- 
munts lies ; 
Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest 
fee-faw-fum : 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half 
rum ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it aint no sech thing ; an', of 
course, so must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in 
his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their 
swaller-tail coats, 
An' marched round in front of a drum 
an' a fife, 
To git some on 'em office, an' some 
on 'em votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they did n't know everythin' 
down in Judee. 

Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to 
tell us 
The rights an' the wrongs o' these 
matters, I vow, — 



192 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



God sends country lawyers, an' other 

wise fellers, 
To start the world's team wen it gits 
in a slough ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers 
out Gee 1 

[The attentive reader will doubtless have 
perceived in the foregoing poem an allusion 
to that pernicious sentiment, — " Our country, 
right or wrong." It is an abuse of language 
to call a certain portion of land, much more, 
certain personages, elevated for the time 
being to high station, our country. I would 
not sever nor loosen a single one of those ties 
by which we are united to the spot of our 
birth, nor minish by a little the re->pect due 
to the Magistrate. I love <>ur own Bay State 
too well to do the one, and as for the other, I 
have myself for nigh forty years exercised, 
however unworthily, the function of Justice 
of the Peace, having been called thereto by 
the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent 
man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Pa- 
trice funtlis ig>ie alieno luculoitior is best 
qualified with this, — Ubi libertas, ibipatria. 
We are inhabitants of two worlds, and owe 
a double, but not a divided allegiance. In 
virtue of our clay, ihis little ball of earth ex- 
acts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our ca- 
pacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of 
an invisible and holier fatherland. There is 
a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves 
us from our other and terrene fealty. Our 
true country is that ideal realm which we 
represent to ourselves under the names of 
religion, duty, and the like. Our terrestrial 
organizations are but far-off approaches to 
so fair a model, and all they are verily traitors 
who resist not any attempt to divert them 
from this their original intendment. When, 
therefore, one would have us to fling up our 
caps and shout with the multitude, — "Our 
country, howeve> bounded /" he demands of 
us that we sacrifice the larger to the 1 jss, the 
higher to the lower, and that we yield to tiie 
imaginary claims of a few acres of soil our 
duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. Our 
true country is bounded on the north and the 
south, on the east and the west, by Justice, 
and when she oversteps that invisible boun- 
dary-line by so much as a hair's-breadth, she 
ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather 
to be looked upon quasi noverca. That is a 
hard choice when our earthly love of country 
calls upon us to tread one path and our duty 
points us to another. We must make as 
noble and becoming an election as did Pe- 
nelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling 
our faces, we must take silently the hand of 
Duty to follow her. 

Shortly after the publication of the fore- 
going poem, there appeared some comments 



upon it in one of the public prints which 
seemed to call for animadversion. I accord- 
ingly addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of the 
Boston Courier, the following letter. 

JAALAM, November 4, 1847. 
" To the Editor 0/ the Courier : 

" RESPECTED Sir, —Calling at the post- 
office this morning, mir worthy and efficient 
postmaster offered for my perusal a para- 
graph in the Boston Morning Post of the 3d 
instant, wherein certain effusions of the pas- 
toral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. 
James Russell Lowell. For aught I know or 
can affirm to the contrary, this Mr. Lowell 
may be a very deserving person and a youth 
of parts (though I have seen verses of his 
which I could never rightly understand) ; and 
if he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, 
would be free from any proclivity to appro- 
priate to himself whatever of credit (or dis- 
credit) may honestly belong to another. I 
am confident, that, in penning these few lines, 
I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that 
young gentleman, whose silence hitherto, 
when rumor pointed to himward, has excited 
in my bosom mingled emotions of sorrow and 
surprise. Well may my young parishioner, 
Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet, 

' Sic vos non vobis,' &c. ; 
though, in saying this, I would not convey 
the impression that he is a proficient in the 
Latin tongue, — the tongue, I might add, of 
a Horace and a Tully. 

" Mr. B. does not employ his pen, I can 
safely say, for any lucre of worldly gain, or to 
be exalted by the carnal plaudits of men, 
digito monstrari, &c. He does not wait 
upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart 
mean merces. But I should esteem myself 
as verily deficient in my duty (who am his 
friend and in some unworthy sort his spiritual 
Jidus Achates, &c), if I did not step forward 
to claim for him whatever measure of ap- 
plause might be assigned to him by the ju- 
dicious. 

" If this were a fitting occasion, I might 
venture here a brief dissertation touching the 
manner and kind of my young friend's poetry. 
But I dubitate whether this abstruser sort of 
speculation (though enlivened by some ap- 
posite instances from Aristophanes) would 
sufficiently interest your oppidan readers. As 
regards their satirical tone, and their plain- 
ness of speech, I will only say, that, in my 
pastoral experience, I have found that the 
Arch-Enemy loves nothing better than to be 
treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual 
being, and that there is no apage Sathanas ! 
so potent as ridicule. But it is a kind of 
weapon that must have a button of good- 
nature on the point of it. 

" The productions of Mr. B. have been 
stigmatized in some quarters as unpatriotic ; 
but I can vouch that he loves his native soil 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



193 



with that hearty, though discriminating, at- 
tachment which springs from an intimate 
social intercourse of many years' standing. 
In the ploughing season, no one has a deeper 
share in the well-being of the country than 
he. If Dean Swift were right in saying that 
he who makes two blades of grass grow 
where one grew before confers a greater 
benefit on the state than he who taketh a 
city, Mr. B. might exhibit a fairer claim to 
the Presidency than General Scott himself. 
I think that some of those disinterested lovers 
of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers 
have never touched anything rougher than 
the dollars of our common country, would 
hesitate to compare palms with him. It would 
do your heart good, respected Sir, to see 
that young man mow. He cuts a cleaner and 
wider swarth than any in this town. 

" But it is time for me to be at my Post. It 
is very clear that my young friend's shot has 
struck the lintel, for the Post is shaken (Amos 
ix. 1). The editor of that paper is a strenu- 
ous advocate of the Mexican war, and a 
coloneL, as I am given to understand. I pre- 
sume, that, being necessarily absent in Mex- 
ico, he has left his journal in some less judi- 
cious hands. At any rate, the Post has been 
too swift on this occasion. It could hardly 
have cited a more incontrovertible line from 
any poem than that which it has selected for 
animadversion, namely, — 

■ We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' 
pillage.' 

"'If the Post maintains the converse of 
this proposition, it can hardly be considered 
as a safe guide-post for the moral and re- 
ligious portions of its party, however many 
other excellent qualities of a post it may be 
blessed with. There is a sign in London on 
which is painted, — ' The Green Man.' It 
would do very well as a portrait of any in- 
dividual who would support so unscriptural a 
thesis. As regards the language of the line 
in question, I am bold to say that He who 
readeth the hearts of men will not account 
any dialect unseemly which conveys a sound 
and pious sentiment' I could wish that such 
sentiments were more common, however un- 
couthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, 
that Veritas a quocintque (why not, then, 
qriomodocunque ?) dicatur, a spiritu saucto 
est. Digest also this of Baxter : ' The 
plainest words are the most profitable oratory 
in the weightiest matters.' 

"When the paragraph in question was 
shown to Mr. Biglow, the only part of it 
which seemed to give him any dissatisfaction 
was that which classed him with the Whig 
party. He says, that, if resolutions are a 
nourishing kind of diet, that party must be in 
a very hearty and flourishing condition ; for 
that they have quietly eaten more good ones 
of their own baking than he could have con- 
ceived to be possible without repletion. He 
has been for some years past (I regret to say) 
13 



an ardent opponent of those sound doctrines 
of protective policy which form so prominent 
a portion of the creed of that party. I con- 
fess, that, in some discussions which I have 
had with him on this point in my study, he 
has displayed a vein of obstinacy w^hich I had 
not hitherto detected in his composition. He 
is also {horresco referens) infected in no small 
measure with the peculiar notions of a print 
called the Liberator, whose heresies I take 
every proper opportunity of combating, and 
of which, I thank God, I have never read a 
single line. 

"I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they 
appeared in print, and there is certainly one 
thing in them which I consider highly im- 
proper. 1 allude to the personal references 
to myself by name. To confer notoriety on 
an humble individual who is laboring quietly 
in his vocation, and who keeps his cloth as 
free as he can from the dust of the political 
arena (though vcz ?nihi si non evangeliza- 
Tjero), is no doubt an indecorum. The senti- 
ments which he attributes to me I will not 
deny to be mine. They were embodied, 
though in a different form, in a discourse 
preached upon the last day of public fasting, 
and were acceptable to my entire people (of 
whatever political views), except the post- 
master, who dissented ex officio. I observe 
that you sometimes devote a portion of your 
paper to a religious summary. I should be 
well pleased to furnish a copy of my dis- 
course for insertion in this department of 
your instructive journal. By omitting the 
advertisements, it might easily be got within 
the limits of a single number, and I venture 
to insure you the sale of some scores of cop- 
ies in this town. I will cheerfully render my- 
self responsible for ten. It might possibly be 
advantageous to issue it as an extra. But 
perhaps you will not esteem it an object, and 
I will not press it. My offer does not spring 
from any weak desire of seeing my name in 
print ; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any 
time by turning to the Triennial Catalogue 
of the University, where it also possesses 
that added emphasis of Italics with which 
those of my calling are distinguished. 

" I would simply add, that I continue to fit 
ingenuous youth for college, and that I have 
two spacious and airy sleeping apartments at 
this moment unoccupied. Ingenuas didi- 
ctsse, &c. Terms, which vary according to 
the circumstances of the parents, may be 
known on application to me by letter, post- 
paid. In all cases the lad will be expected to 
fetch his own towels. This rule, Mrs. W. de- 
sires me to add, has no exceptions. 

"Respectfully, vour obedient servant, 
"HOMER WILBUR, A.M. 

"P. S. Perhaps the last paragraph may 
look like an attempt to obtain the insertion 
of my circular gratuitously. If it should ap- 
pear to you in' that light, I desire that you 
would erase it, or charge for it at the usual 



194 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



rates, and deduct the amount from the pro- 
ceeds in your hands from the sale of my dis- 
course, when it shall be printed. My circu- 
lar is much longer and more explicit, and will 
be forwarded without charge to any who may 
desire it. It has been very neatly executed 
on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, 
who attends upon my ministry, and is a cred- 
itable specimen of the typographic art. I 
have one hung over my mantel-piece in a neat 
frame, where it makes a beautiful and appro- 
priate ornament, and balances the profile of 
Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady 
born without arms. H. W." 

I have in the foregoing letter mentioned 
General Scott in connection with the Presi- 
dency, because I have been given to under- 
stand that he has blown to pieces and other- 
wise caused to be destroyed more Mexicans 
than any other commander. His claim would 
therefore be deservedly considered the 
strongest. Until accurate returns of the 
Mexicans killed, wounded, and maimed be 
obtained, it will be difficult to settle these nice 
points of precedence. Should it prove that 
any other officer has been more meritorious 
and destructive than General S., and has 
thereby rendered himself more worthy of the 
confidence and support of the conservative 
portion of our community, I shall cheerfully 
insert his name, instead of that of General 
S., in a future edition. It may be thought, 
likewise, that General S has invalidated his 
claims by too much attention to the decen- 
cies of apparel, and the habits belonging to 
a gentleman. These abstruser points of 
statesmanship are beyond my scope. I won- 
der not that successful military achievement 
should attract the admiration of the multi- 
tude. Rather do I rejoice with wonder to 
behold how rapidly this sentiment is losing its 
hold upon the popular mind. It is related of 
Thomas Warton, the second of that honored 
name who held the office of Poetry Professor 
at Oxford, that, when one wished to find him, 
being absconded, as was his wont, in some 
obscure alehouse, he was counselled to trav- 
erse the city with a drum and fife, the sound 
of which inspiring music would be sure to 
draw the Doctor from his retirement into the 
street. We are all more or less bitten with 
this martial insanity. Nescio qua dulcedtne 
.... cunctos ducit. I confess to some in- 
fection of that itch myself. When I see a 
Brigadier-General maintaining his insecure 
elevation in the saddle under the severe fire 
of the training-field, and when I remember 
that some military enthusiasts, through haste, 
inexpenence, or an over-de ire to lend real- 
ity to those fictitious combats, will sometimes 
discharge their ramrods, I cannot but ad- 
mire, while I deplore, the mistaken devotion 
of those heroic officers. Semel insaniTrimus 
omnes. I was myself, during the late war 
with Great Britain, chaplain of a regiment, 
■which was fortunately never called to active 



military duty. I mention this circumstance 
with regret rather than pride. Had I been 
summoned to actual warfare, I trust that I 
might have been strengthened to bear my- 
self after the manner of that reverend father 
in our New England Israel, Dr. Benjamin 
Column, who, as we are told in Turell's life 
of him, when the vessel in which he had 
taken passage for England was attacked by 
a French privateer, " fought like a philoso- 
pher and a Christian, .... and prayed all 
the while he charged and fired." As this 
note is already long, I shall not here enter 
upon a discussion of the question, whether 
Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think 
it sufficiently evident, that, during the first 
two centuries of the Christian era, at least, 
the two professions were esteemed incompat- 
ible. Consult Jortin on this head. — H. W.J 



No. IV. 

REMARKS OF INCREASE D. 0*PHACE, 
ESQUIRE, AT AN EXTKUMPERY CAU- 
CUS IN STATE STREET, REPORTED 
BY MR. H. BIGLOW. 

[TUF. ingenious reader will at once under- 
stand that no such speech as the. following 
was ever totidem verbis pronounced. But 
there are simpler and less guarded wits, for 
the satisfying of which such an explanation 
may be needful. For there are certain in- 



visible lines, which as Truth successively 
overpasses, she becomes Untruth to one and 
another of us, as a large river, flowing from 
one kingdom into another, sometimes takes a 
new name, albeit the waters undergo no 
change, how small soever. There is, more- 
over, a truth of fiction more veracious than 
the truth of fact, as that of the Poet, which 
represents to us things and events as they 
ought to be, rather than servilely copies them 
as they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked 
and smoky glass of our mundane affairs. It 
is this which makes the speech of Antonius, 
though originally spoken in no wider a forum 
than the brain of Shakespeare, more histori- 
cally valuable than that other which Appian 
has reported, by as much as the understand- 
ing of the Englishman was more comprehen- 
sive than that of the Alexandrian. Mr. Big- 
low, in the present instance, has only made 
use of a license assumed by all the historians 
of antiquity, who put into the mouths of vari- 
ous characters such words as seem to them 
most fitting to the occasion and to the speak- 
er. If it be objected that no such oration 
could ever have been delivered, I answer, 
that there are few assemblages for speech- 
making which do not better deserve the title 
of Parliamentum. Indoclorutn than did the 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



195 



sixth Parliament of Henry the Fourth, and 
that men still continue to have as much faith 
in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel 
had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a 
merry tale of a certain ambassador of L>ueen 
Elizabeth, who, having - written two letters, — 
one to her Majesty, and the other to his wife, — 
directed them at cross-purposes, so that the 
Queen was beducked and bedeared and re- 
quested to send a change of hose, and the 
wife was beprincessed and otherwise unwont- 
edly besuperlatived, till the one feared for 
the wits of her ambassador, and the other 
for those of her husband. In like manner it 
may be presumed that our speaker has mis- 
directed some of his thoughts, and given to 
the whole theatre what he would have wished 
to confide only to a select auditory at the 
back of the curtain. For it is seldom that we 
can get any frank utterance from men, who 
address, for the most part, a Buncombe 
either in this world or the next. As for their 
audiences, it may be truly said of our people, 
that they enjoy one political institution in 
common with the ancient Athenians : I mean 
a certain profitless kind of ostracism, where- 
with, nevertheless, they seem hitherto well 
enough content. For in Presidential elec- 
tions, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I 
observe that the oysters fall to the lot of 
comparatively few, the shells (such as the 
privileges of voting as they are told to do by 
the ostrivori aforesaid, and of huzzaing at 
public meetings) are very liberally distributed 
among the people, as being their prescriptive 
and quite sufficient portion. 

The occasion of the speech is supposed to 
be Mr. Palfrey's refusal to vote for the Whig 
candidate for the Speakership. — H. W.l 

No? Hez he> He haint, though? 

Wut ? Voted agin him ? 
Ef the bird of our country could ketch 

him, she 'd skin him ; 
I seem 's though I see her, with wrath 

in each quill, 
Like a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill, 
An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all 

nater, 
To pounce like a writ on the back o' 

the traitor. 
Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be 

her, 
But a crisis like this must with vigor be 

met ; 
Wen an Arnold the star-spangled ban- 
ner bestains, 
Holl Fourth o' Julys seem to bile in 

my veins. 

Who ever 'd ha' thought sech a pison- 
ous rig 



Would be run by a chap thet wuz 

chose fer a Wig ? 
" We knowed wut his principles wuz 

'fore we sent him " ? 
Wut wuz ther in tHe*m from this vote to 

prevent him? 
A marciful Providunce fashioned us 

holler 
O' purpose thet we might our principles 

swaller ; 
It can hold any quantity on 'em, the 

belly can, 
An' bring 'em up ready fer use like the 

pelican, 
Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich 

is stranger) 
Puts her family into her pouch wen 

there 's danger. 
Aint principle precious ? then, who *s 

goin' to use it 
Wen there 's resk o' some chap 'sgittin* 

up to abuse it? 
I can't tell the wy on 't, but nothin' is 

so sure 
Ez thet principle kind o' gits spiled by 

exposure ; * 
A man thet lets all sorts o' folks git a 

sight on 't 
Ough' to hev it all took right away, 

every mite on 't ; 
Ef he can't keep it all to himself wen 

it 's wise to, 
He aint one it 's fit to trust nothin* so 

nice to. 

Besides, ther 's a wonderful power in 

latitude 
To shift a man's morril relations an* 

attitude ; 
Some flossifers think thet a fakkilty *s 

granted 

* The speaker is of a different mind from 
Tully, who, in his recently discovered trac- 
tate De Republica, tells us, — Necvero habere 
virtntem satis est, quasi artem aliqna?n, 
nisi Utare, and from our Milton, who says: 
" I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered 
virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that 
never sallies out and sees her adversary, but 
slinks out of the race where that immortal 
garland is to be run for, not without dust and 
heat." — Areop. He had taken the words 
out of the Roman's mouth, without knowing 
it, and might well exclaim with Austin (if a 
saint's name may stand sponsor for a curse), 
Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerintl — 
H. W. 



196 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



The minnit it 's p'roved to be thorough- 
ly wanted, 
Thet a change o' demand makes a 

change o' condition, 
An' thet everythin' 's nothin' except by 

position ; 
Ez, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust 

begun beat in' 
Wen p'litikle conshunces come into 

wearin', — 
Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt 

chanced to fail, 
Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile 

tail ; 
So, wen one 's chose to Congriss, ez 

soon ez he 's in it, 
A collar grows right round his neck in 

a minnit, 
An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be 

strict 
In bein' himself, wen he gits to the 

Deestrict, 
Fer a coat thet sets wal here in ole 

Massachusetts, 
Wen it gits on to Waehinton, somehow 

askew sets. 

Resolves, do you say, o' the Springfield 

Convention ? 
Thet's percisely the pint I was goin' to 

mention ; 
Resolves air a thing we most gen'ally 

keep ill, 
They 're a cheap kind o' dust fer the 

eyes o' the people ; 
A parcel o' delligits jest get together 
An' chat fer a spell o' the crops an' the 

weather, 
Then, comin' to order, they squabble 

awile 
An' let off the speeches they 're ferful 

'11 spile ; 
Then — Resolve, — Thet we wunt hev 

an inch o' slave territory ; 
Thet President Polk's holl perceedins 

air very tory ; 
Thet the war is a damned war, an' 

them thet enlist in it 
Should hev a cravat with a dreffle tight 

twist in it ; 
Thet the war is a war fer the spreadin' 

o' slavery ; 
Thet our army desarves our best thanks 

fer their bravery ; 



Thet we 're the original friends o' the 

nation, 
All the rest air a paltry an' base fab- 
rication ; 
Thet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, 

an' CJ, 
An' ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, 

an' G. 
In this way they go to the eend o' the 

chapter, 
An' then they bust out in a kind of a 

raptur 
About their own vartoo, an' folks'* 

stone-blindness 
To the men thet 'ould actilly do 'em » 

kindness, — 
The American eagle, — the Pilgrim* 

thet landed, — 
Till on ole Plymouth Rock they gj* 

finally stranded. 
Wal, the people they listen and say, 

" Thet 's the ticket ; ' 
Ez fer Mexico, 'taint no great glory to 

lick it, 
But 't would be a danjed shame to go 

pullin' o' triggers 
To extend the aree of abusin' the nig- 
gers." 

So they march in percessions, an' git 

up hooraws, 
An' tramp thru the mud fer the good o' 

the cause, 
An' think they 're a kind o' fulfillin' the 

prophecies, 
Wen they're on'y jest changin' the 

holders of e^ices , 
Ware A sot afore, B is comf'tably 

seated, 
One humbug 's victor'ous an' t'other 

defeated. 
Each honnable doughface gits jest wut 

he axes, 
An' the people — their annooal soft- 

sodder an' taxes. 

Now, to keep unimpaired all these 

glorious feeturs 
Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' 

creeturs, 
Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, 
Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt 

Flam, 
And stick honest Presidunt Sham in 

his place, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



197 



To the manifest gain o' the holl human 

race, 
An' to some indervidgewals on 't in 

partickler, 
Who love Public Opinion an' know 

how to tickle her, — 
I say thet a party with great aims like 

these 
Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full o' 

bees. 

I 'm willin' a man should go tollable 

strong 
Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet 

kind o' wrong 
Is oilers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied, 
Because it 's a crime no one never com- 
mitted ; 
But he raus' n't be hard on partickler 

sins, 
Coz then he '11 be kickin' the people's 

own shins ; 
On'y look at the Demmercrats, see wut 

they 've done 
Jest simply by stickin' together like 

fun ; 
They ' ve sucked us right into a mis'able 

war 
Thet no one on airth aint responsible 

for; 
They 've run us a hundred cool millions 

in debt 
(An' fer Demmercrat Horners ther 's 

good plums left yet) ; 
They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a 

high one, 
An' so coax all parties to build up their 

Zion ; 
To the people they 're oilers ez slick ez 

molasses, 
An' butter their bread on both sides 

with The Masses, 
Half o' whom they 've persuaded, by 

way of a joke, 
Thet Washinton's mantelpiece fell upon 

Polk. 

Now all o' these blessin's the Wigs 

might enjoy, 
Ef they 'd gumption enough the right 

means to imploy ; * 

* That was a pithy saying of Persius, and 
fits our politicians without a wrinkle, — Ma- 
gister artis, ingeniique largitor venter. — 



Fer the silver spoow born in Dermoc- 

racy's mouth 
Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to 

the South ; 
Their masters can cuss 'em an' kick 

'em an' wale 'em, 
An' they notice it less 'an the ass did 

to Balaam ; 
In this way they screw into second- 
rate offices 
Wich the slaveholder thinks 'ould sub- 

stract too much off his ease ; 
The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, 

by their wiles, 
Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their 

files. 
Wal, the Wigs hev been tryin' to grab 

all this prey frum 'em 
An' to hook this nice spoon o' good 

fortin' away frum 'em, 
An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely 

ez not, 
In lickin' the Demmercrats all round 

the lot, 
Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithful Wigs 

were their knees on, 
Some stuffy old codger would holler 

out, — " Treason ! 
You must keep a sharp eye on a dog 

thet hez bit you once, 
An' / aint agoin' to cheat my constit- 

oounts," — 
Wen every fool knows thet a man rep- 
resents 
Not the fellers thet sent him, but them 

on the fence, — 
Impartially ready to jump either side 
An' make the fust use of a turn o' the 

tide, — 
The waiters on Providunce here in the 

city, 
Who compose wut they call a State 

Centerl Committy. 
Constitoounts air hendy to help a man 

in, 
But arterwards don't weigh the heft of 

a pin. 
Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle 

Sam's pus, 
So they 've nothin' to du with 't fer 

better or wus ; 
It 's the folks thet air kind o' brought 

up to depend on 't 
Thet hev any consarn in 't, an' thet is 

t u e end on 't. 



198 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Now here wiu New England ahevin' 

the honor 
Of a chance at the Speakership show- 
ered upon her ; — 
Do you say, — "She don't want no 

more Speakers, but fewer; 
She 's hed plenty o' them, wut she wants 

is a doer" ? 
Fer the matter o' thet, it 's notorous in 

town 
Thet her own representatives du her 

quite brown. 
But thet 's nothin' to du with it ; wut 

right hed Palfrey 
To mix himself up with fanatical small 

fry? 
Warn't we gittin' on prime with our hot 

an' cold blowin', 
Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep' it 

agoin' ? 
We'd assumed with gret skill a com- 

mandin' position, 
On this side or thet, no one could n't 

tell wich one, 
So, wutever side wipped, we 'd a chance 

at the plunder 
An' could sue fer infringin' our pay- 
tented thunder ; 
We were ready to vote fer whoever wuz 

eligible, 
Ef on all pints at issoo he 'd stay unin- 
telligible. 
Wal, sposin' we hed to gulp down our 

perfessions, 
We were ready to come out next morn- 

in' with fresh ones ; 
Besides, ef we did, 't was our business 

alone, 
Fer could n't we du wut we would with 

our own ? 
An' ef a man can, wen pervisions hev 

riz so, 
Eat up his own words, it 's a marcy it 

is so. 



Wy, these chaps frum the North, with 

back-bones to 'em, darn 'em, 
'Ould be wuth more 'an Gennle Tom 

Thumb is to Barnum : 
Ther 's enough thet to office on this 

very plan grow, 
By exhibitin' how very small a man can 

grow; 



But an M. C. frum here oilers hastens 

to state he 
Belongs to the order called inverte- 

braty, 
Wence some gret filologists judge primy 

fashy 
Thet M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy ; 
An' these few exceptions air loosus 

naytury 
Folks 'ould put down their quarters to 

stare at, like fury. 

It 's no use to open the door o' success, 
Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or 

less ; 
Wy, all o' them grand constitootional 

pillers 
Our fore-fathers fetched with 'em over 

the billers, 
Them pillers the people so soundly hev 

slep' on, 
Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they 

were swep' on, 
Wile our Destiny higher an' higher 

kep' mountin' 
(Though I guess folks Ml stare wen she 

hends her account in), 
Ef members in this way go kicken' 

agin 'em, 
They wunt hev so much ez a feather left 

in 'em. 

An', ez fer this Palfrey,* we thought 

wen we 'd gut him in, 
He 'd go kindly in wutever harness we 

put him in ; 
Supposin' we did know thet he wuz a 

peace man ? 
Doos he think he can be Uncle Sam- 

mle's policeman, 
An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a 

riot, 
Lead him off to the lockup to snooze 

till he's quiet? 
Wy, the war is a war thet true paytriots 

can bear, ef 
It leads to the fat promised land of a 

tayriff; 
We don't go an' fight it, nor aint to be 

driv on, 
Nor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut 

to live on ; 
* There is truth yet in this of Juvenal, — 
" Dat veniamcorvis, vexat censuracolumbas.'* 
H. W. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



199 



Ef it aint jest the thing thet *s well 

pleasin' to God, 
It makes us thought highly on else- 
where abroad ; 
The Rooshian black eagle looks blue 

in his eerie 
An' shakes both his heads wen he 

hears o' Monteery ; 
In the Tower Victory sets, all of a 

fluster, 
An' reads, with locked doors, how we 

won Cherry Buster ; 
An' old Philip Lewis — thet come an' 

kep' school here 
Fer the mere sake o' scoria' his ryalist 

ruler 
On the tenderest part of our kings in 

futuro — 
Hides his crown underneath an old 

shut in his bureau, 
Breaks off in his brags fco a suckle o' 

merry kings, 
How he often hed hided young native 

Amerrikins, 
An' twain' quite faint in the midst of 

his fooleries, 
Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front 

door o' the Tooleries.* 

You say, — " We 'd ha' scared 'em by 

growin' in peace, • 
A plaguy sight more then by bobberies 

like these " ? 

* Jortin is willing to allow of other mira- 
cles besides those recorded in Holy Writ, 
and why not of other prophecies? It is grant- 
ing too much to Satan to suppose him, as 
divers of the learned have done, the inspirer 
of the ancient oracles. Wiser, I esteem it, 
to give chance the credit of the successful 
ones. What is said here of Louis Philippe 
was verified in some of its minute particulars 
within a few months' time. Enough to have 
made the fortune of Delphi or Hammon, and 
no thanks to Beelzebub neither ! That of 
Seneca in Medea will suit here : — 

" Rapida fortuna ac levis 
Praecepsque regno eripuit, exsilio dedit." 
Let us allow, even to richly deserved mis- 
fortune, our commiseration, and be not over- 
hasty meanwhile in our censure of the French 
people, left for the first time to govern them- 
selves, remembering that wise sentence of 
yEschylus, — 

r A7ras 6e rpa^us ootis av viov Kparj). 
H. W. 



Who is it dares say thet our naytional 

eagle 
Wun't much longer be classed with the 

birds thet air regal, 
Coz theirn be hooked beaks, an' she, 

arter this slaughter, 
'11 bring back a bill ten times longer 'n 

she ough' to " ? 
Wut 's your name ? Come, I see ye, 

you up-country feller, 
You 've put me out severil times with 

your beller ; 
Out with it ! Wut ? Biglow ? I say 

nothin' furder, 
Thet feHer would like nothin' better 'n 

a murder ; 
He 's a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut 

ruther worse is, 
He puts all his ath'ism in dreffle bad 

verses ; 
Socity aint safe till sech monsters air 

out on it, 
Refer to the Post, ef you hev the least 

doubt on it ; 
Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect 

taxes, 
Agin sellin' wild lands 'cept to settlers 

with axes, 
Agin holdin' o 5 slaves, though he knows 

it 's the corner 
Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able 

scorn er ! 
In short, he would wholly upset with 

his ravages 
All thet keeps us above the brute crit- 
ters an' savages, 
An' pitch into all kinds o' briles an' 

confusions 
The holl of our civilized, free institu- 
tions ; 
He writes fer thet ruther unsafe print, 

the Courier, 
An' likely ez not hez a squintin* to 

Foorier ; 
I '11 be , thet is, I mean I '11 be 

blest, 
Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a 

pest ; 
I sha' n't talk with him, my religion 's 

too fervent. — 
Good mornin', my friends, I *m your 

most humble servant. 

[Into, the question, whether the ability to 
express ourselves in articulate language has 



20O 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



been productive of more good or evil, I shall 
not here enter at large. The two faculties 
of speech and of speech-making are wholly 
diverse in 'their natures. By the first we 
make ourselves intelligible, by the last unin- 
telligible, to our fellows. It has not seldom 
occurred to me (noting how in our national 
legislature everything runs to talk, as let- 
tuces, if the season or the soil be unpropi- 
tious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of runn- 
ing handsome heads) that Babel was the hrst 
Congress, the earliest mill erected for the 
manufacture of gabble. In these days, what 
with Town Meetings, School Committees, 
Boards (lumber) of one kind and another, 
Congresses, Parliaments. Diets, Indian Coun- 
cils, Palavers, and the like, there is scarce a 
village which has not its factories of this de- 
scription driven by (milk-and-) water power. 
1 cannot conceive the confusion of tongues to 
have been the curse of Babel, since 1 esteem 
niy ignorance of other languages as a kind 
of Martello-tower, in which I am safe from 
the furious bombardments of foreign garru- 
lity. For this reason I have ever pre! erred 
the study of the de id languages, those prim- 
itive formations being Ararats upon whose 
silent peaks I sit secure and watch this new 
deluge without (ear, though it rain figures 
{simulacra, semblances) of speech forty days 
and nights together, as it not uncommonly 
happens. Thus is my coat, as it were, with- 
out buttons by which any but a vernacular 
wild bore can seize me. Is it not possible 
that the Shakers may intend to convey a 
quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their 
outer garments with hooks and eyes! 

This reflection concerning Babel, which I 
find in no Commentary, was first thrown upon 
my mind when an excellent deacon of my 
congregation (being infected with the Second 
Advent delusion) assured me that he had 
received a first instilment of the gift of 
tongues as a small earnest of larger posses- 
sions in the like kind to follow. For, of a 
truth, I could not reconcile it with my ideas 
of the Divine justice and mercy that the 
single wall which protected people of other 
languages from the incursions of this other- 
wise well-meaning propagandist should be 
broken down. 

In reading Congressional debates, I have 
fancied, that, after the subsidence of those 
painful buzzings in the brain which result 
from such exercises, I detected a slender 
residuum of valuable information. I made 
the discovery that nothing takes longer in 
the saying than anything else, for as ex nihilo 
nihil Jit, so from one polypus nothing any 
number of similar ones may be produced. I 
would recommend to the attention of viva 
voce debaters and controversialists the ad- 
mirable example of the monk Copres, who, 
in the fourth century, stood for half an hour 
in the midst of a great fire, and thereby si- 
lenced a Manicha^an antagonist who had less 
of the salamander in him. As for tho'se who 



quarrel in print, I have no concern with them 
here, since the eyelids are a divinely granted 
Shield against all such. Moreover, I have 
observed in many modern books that the 
printed portion is becominggradually smaller, 
and tlie number of blank or try-leaves (as they 
are called) greater. Should this fortunate 
tendency of literature continue, books will 
grow more valuable from year to year, and 
the wh( ,le Serbonian bog yield to the advances 
ol firm arable land. 

1 lie sagacious Lacedaemonians hearing 
that I esephone had bragged that he could 
talk all day long on any given subject made 
no more ado, but forthwith banished him, 
whereby they supplied him a topic and at 
the same time took care that his experiment 
upon it should be tried out of ear-shot. 

I have wondered, in the Representatives' 
Chamber of our own Commonwealth, to mark 
how little impression seemed to be produced 
by that emblematic fish suspended over the 
heads of the members. Our wiser ancestors, 
no doubt, hung it there as being the animal 
which the Pythagoreans reverenced for its 
silence, and which certainly in that particular 
doe not so well merit the epithet cold-blooded, 
by which naturalists distinguish it, as certain 
bipeds, afflicted with ditch-water on the brain, 
who take occasion to tap themselves in Fan- 
euil Halls, meeting-houses, and other places 
of public resort. — H. VV.] 



No. V. 



THE DEBATE IN THE SEN- 
NIT. 

SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME. 

[The incident which gave rise to the debate 
satirized in the following verses was the un- 
successful attempt of Drayton and Sayres to 
give freedom to seventy men and women, 
fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had 
Tripoli, instead of Washington, been the 
scene of this undertaking, the unhappy lead- 
ers in it would have been as secure of the 
theoretic as they now are of the practical 
part of martyrdom. I question whether the 
Dey of Tripoli is blessed with a District At- 
torney so benighted as ours at the seat of 
government. Very fitly is he named Key, 
who would allow himself to be made the in- 
strument of locking the door of hope against 
sufferers in such a cause. Not all the waters 
of the ocean can cleanse the vile smutch of 
the jailer's fingers from off that little Key. 
Ahenea clavis, a brazen Key indeed 1 

Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker 
in this burlesque, seems to think that the 
light of the nineteenth century is to be put 
out as soon as he tinkles his little cow-bell 
curfew. Whenever slavery is touched, he 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



sets up his scarecrow of dissolving - the Union. 
This may do for the North, but I should con- 
jecture that something- more than a pumpkin- 
lantern is required to scare manifest and irre- 
trievable Destiny out of her path. Mr. Cal- 
houn cannot let go the apron-string of the 
Past. The Past is a good nurse, but we 
must be weaned from her sooner or later, 
even though, like Plotinus, we should run 
home from school to ask the Dreast, after we 
are tolerably well-grown youths. It will not 
do for us to hide our faces in her lap, when- 
ever the strange Future holds out her arms 
and asks us to come to her. 

But we are all alike. We have all heard 
it said, often enough, that little boys must 
not play with fire ; and yet, if the matches be 
taken away from us, and put out of reach 
upon the shelf, we must needs get into our 
little corner, and scowl and stamp and 
threaten the dire revenge of going to bed 
without our supper. The world shall stop 
tiii we get our dangerous plaything again. 
Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than 
enough household matters to mind, goes 
bustling hither and thither as a hiss or a 
sputter t-lls her that this or that ketde of hers 
is boiling over, and before bedtime we are 
glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down 
our dignity along with it. 

Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the 
name of a great statesman, and. if it be great 
statesmanship to put lance in rest and run a 
tilt at the Spirit of the Age with the certainty 
of being next moment hurled neck and heels 
into the dust amid universal laughter, he de- 
serves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our 
modern chivalry. He should remember the 
old Scandinavian mythus. Thor was the 
strongest of gods, but he could not wrestle 
with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of 
the great snake which knit the universe 
together ; and when he smote the Earth, 
though with his terrible mallet, it was but as 
if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while it 
seemed to Thor that he had only been wres- 
tling with an old woman, striving to lift a cat, 
and striking a stupid giant on the head. 

And in old times, doubtless, the giants 
•were stupid, and there was no better sport 
for the Sir Launcelots and Sir Gawains than 
to go about cutting off their great blundering 
heads with enchanted swords. But things 
have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, 
nowadays, that have the science and the 
intelligence, while the chivalrous Don Quix- 
otes of Conservatism still cumber themselves 
with the clumsy armor of a bygone age. On 
whirls the restless globe through unsounded 
time, with its cities and its silences, its births 
and funerals, half light, half shade, but never 
wholly dark, and sure to swing round into the 
happy morning at last. With an involuntary 
smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip his 
pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the 
end of it to anchor South Carolina upon the 
bank and shoal of the Past. — H. W.] 



TO MR. BUCKENAM. 

MR. Editer, As i wuz kinder prunin 
round, in a little nussry sot out a year 
or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit cum 
inter my mine An so i took & Sot it to 
wut I call a nussry rime. I hev made 
sum onnable Gentlemun speak that 
dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie 
sense the seeson is dreffle backerd up 
This way 

ewers as ushul 

HOSEA BIGLOW. 

" Here we stan' on the Constitution, 
by thunder ! 
It 's a fact o' wich ther 's bushils o* 
proofs ; 
Fer how could we trample on 't so, I 
wonder, 
Ef 't worn't thet it 's oilers under our 
hoofs? " 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 
" Human rights haint no more 
Right to come on this floor, 
No more 'n the man in the moon," 
sez he. 

"The North haint no kind o' bisness 
with nothin', 
An' you 've no idee how much bother 
it saves ; 
We aint none riled by their frettin' an' 
frothin', 
We 're used to layin' the string on 
our slaves," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Foote, 
" I should like to shoot 
The holl gang, by the gret horn 
spoon !" sez he. 

" Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet 
ther's no doubt on, 
It 's sutthin' thet 's — wha' d' ye call 
it? — divine, — 
An' the slaves thet we oilers make the 
most out on 
Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's 
line," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" Fer all thet," sez Mangum, 
" 'T would be better to hang 'em, 
An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



" The mass ough' to labor an* we lay 
on softies, 
Thet 's the reason I want to spread 
Freedom's aree ; 
It puts all the cunninest on us in office. 
An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal 
idee," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, 
11 Ez thet some one 's an ass, 
It 's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," 
sez he» 

" Now don't go to say I 'm the friend 
of oppression, 
But keep all your spare breath fer 
coolin' your broth, 
Fer I oilers hev strove (at least thet 's 
my impression) 
To make cussed free with the rights 
o' the North," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., 
"The perfection o' bliss 
Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," 
sez he. 

u Slavery 's a thing thet depends on 
complexion, 
It's God's law thet fetters on black 
skins don't chafe ; 
Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid re- 
flection !) 
Wich of our onnable body 'd be 
safe ? " 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Hannegan, 
Afore he began agin, 
" Thet exception is quite opper- 
toon," sez he. 

" Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be 
twitchin' your collar, 
Your merit 's quite clear by the dut 
on your knees. 
At the North we don't make no dis- 
tinctions o' color ; 
You can all take a lick at our shoes 
wen you please," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Jarnagin, 
" They wunt hev to larn agin, 
1 They all on 'em know the old toon," 
sez he. 



" The slavery question aint no ways 
bewilderin'. 
North an' South hev one int'rest, 
it's plain to a glance ; 
No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't 
sell their childrin, 
But they du sell themselves, ef they 
git a good chance," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Atherton here, 
<k This is gittin' severe, 
I wish I could dive like a loon," sez 
he. 

" It '11 break up the Union, this talk 
about freedom, 
An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we 
split) '11 make head, 
An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to 
lead 'em, 
'11 go to work raisin' promiscoous 
Ned," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
"Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, 
" Ef we Southeners all quit, 
Would go down like a busted bal- 
loon," sez he. 

" Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky 's 
brewin' 
In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' 
vine, 
All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin, 
An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' 
their wine," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he : — 
" Yes," sez Johnson, " in France 
They 're beginnin' to dance 
Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. 

" The South 's safe enough, it don't 
feel a mite skeery, 
Our slaves in their darkness an' dut 
air tu blest 
Not to welcome with proud hallylugers 
the ery 
Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the 
naytional nest," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he : — 
" O." sez Westcott o' Florida, 
" Wut treason is horrider 
Then our priv'leges tryin' to 
proon?" sez he. 



THE BIGLOJV PAPERS. 



203 



" It *s 'coz they 're so happy, thet, wen 
crazy sarpints 
Stick their nose in our bizness, we git 
so darned riled ; 
We think it 's our dooty to give pooty 
sharp hints, 
Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth 
sha' n't be spiled," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, 
" It perfectly true is 
Thet slavery 's airth's grettest 
boon," sez he. 

[It was said of old time, that riches have 
wings ; and, though this be not applicable in 
a literal strictness to the wealth of our patri- 
archal brethren of the South, yet it is clear 
that their possessions have legs, and an un- 
accountable propensity for using- them in a 
northerly direction. I marvel that the grand 
jury of Washington did not find a true bill 
against the North Star for aiding and abet- 
ting Drayton and Sayres. It would have 
been quite of a piece with the intelligence 
displayed by the South on other questions 
connected with slavery. I think that no ship 
of state was ever freighted with a more veri- 
table Jonah than this same domestic institu- 
tion of ours. Mephistopheles himself could 
not feign so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight 
as this of three millions of human beings 
crushed beyond help or hope by this one 
mighty argument, — Our fathers knew no 
better ! Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable 
destiny of Jonahs to be cast overboard 
sooner or later. Or shall we try the experi- 
ment of hiding our Jonah in a safe place, 
that none may lay hands on him to make jet- 
sam of him? Let us, then, with equal fore- 
thought and wisdom, lash ourselves to the 
anchor, and await, in pious confidence, the 
certain result. Perhaps our suspicious pas- 
senger is no Jonah after all, being black. 
For it is well known that a superintending 
Providence made a kind of sandwich of Ham 
and his descendants, to be devoured by the 
Caucasian race. 

In God's name, let all, who hear nearer 
and nearer the hungry moan of the storm 
and the growl of the breakers, speak out ! 
But, alas! we have no right to interfere. If 
a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall be in 
danger of the justice ; but if he steal my 
brother, I must be silent. Who says this? 
Our Constitution, consecrated by the callous 
consuetude of sixty years, and grasped in tri- 
umphant argument by the left hand of him 
whose right hand clutches the clotted slave- 
whip. Justice, venerable with the undethron- 
able majesty of countless aeons, says, — 
SPEAK ! The Past, wise with the sorrows 
and desolations of ages, from amid her shat- 
tered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, ech- 



oes, — SPEAK I Nature, through her thou- 
sand trumpets of freedom, her stars, her sun- 
rises, her seas, her winds, her cataracts, her 
mountains blue with cloudy pines, blows jubi- 
lant encouragement, and cries, — SPEAK 1 
From the soul's trembling abysses the still, 
small voice not vaguely murmurs, — SPEAK! 
But, alas ! the Constitution and the Honors 
able Mr. Bagowind, M. C, say, — Be DUMB ! 
It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of in- 
quiry in this connection, whether, on that 
momentous occasion when the goats and the 
sheep shall be parted, the Constitution and 
the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C, will be 
expected to take their places on the left as 
our hircine vicars. 

Quid sum miser Hincdicturus t 
Quern patronuin rogaturus ? 

There is a point where toleration sinks into 
sheer baseness and poltroonery. The tolera- 
tion of the worst leads us to look on what is 
barely better as good enough, and to worship 
what is only moderately good. Woe to that 
man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has 
become an ideal ! 

Has our experiment of self-government 
succeeded, if it barely manage to rub and 
go ? Here, now, is a piece of barbarism 
which Christ and the nineteenth century say 
shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, 
and others say shall not cease. I would by 
no means deny the eminent respectability of* 
these gentlemen, but I confess, that, in such 
a wrestling-match, I cannot help having my 
fears for them. 

Discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere. 
H. W.J 



No. VI. 
THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. 

[AT the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I 
preface the following satire with an extract 
from a sermon preached during the past 
summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2: "Son of 
man, prophesy against the shepherds of Is- 
rael." Since the Sabbath on which this 
discourse was delivered, the editor of the 
"Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss" has un- 
accountably absented himself from our house 
of worship. 

"I know of no so responsible position as 
that of the public journalist. _ The editor of 
our day bears the same relation to his time 
that the clerk bore to the age before the in- 
vention of printing. Indeed, the position 
which he holds is that which the clergyman 
should hold even now. But the clergyman 
chooses to walk off to the extreme edge of 
the world, and to throw such seed as he has 
clear over into that darkness which he calls 



20 4 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 



the Next Life. As if next did not mean 
nearest, and as if any life were nearer than 
that immediately present one which boils and 
eddies all around hnn at the caucus, the rati- 
fication meeting, and the polls ! Who taught 
him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as 
for some future era of which the present 
forms no integral part? The furrow which 
Time is even now turning runs through the 
Everlasting, and in that' must he plant, or 
nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and 
teach that we are going to have more of eter- 
nity than we have now. Tliis going of his is 
like that of the auctioneer, on which gone 
follows before we have made up our minds to 
bid, — in which manner, not three months 
back, I lost an excellent copy of Chappelow 
on Job. So it has come to pass that the 
preacher, instead of being a living force, has 
faded into an emblematic figure at christen- 
ings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if he ex- 
ercise any other function, it is as keeper and 
feeder of certain theologic dogmas, which, 
when occasion offers, he unkennels with a 
staboy ! ' to bark and bite as 't is their na- 
ture to,' whence that reproach of odium theo- 
logicunt has arisen. 

" Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor 
mounts daily, sometimes witn a congregation 
of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, 
and never so much as a nodder, even, among 
them ! And from what a Bib e can he choose 
his text, — a Bible which needs no transla- 
tion, and which no priestcraft can shut and 
clasp from the laity, — the open volume of 
the world, upon which, with a pen of sun- 
shine or destroying fire, the inspired Present 
is even now writing the annals of God I Me- 
thinks the editor who should understand his 
calling, and be equal thereto, would truly 
deserve that title of Troi/xrjf Aau>e, which 
Homer bestows upon princes. He would be 
the Moses of our nineteenth century ; and 
whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a 
common mountain stared at by the elegant 
tourist and crawled over by the hammering 
geologist, he must find his tables of the new 
law here among factories and cities in this 
Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called 
Progress of Civilization, and be the captain 
of bur Exodus into the Canaan of a truer 
social order. 

" Nevertheless, our editor will not come so 
far within even the shadow of Sinai as Ma- 
homet did, but chooses rather to construe 
Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up the crook, 
not that the sheep may be fed, but that he 
may never want a warm woollen suit and a 
joint of mutton. 
Immemor, O, Jidei, pecorumque oblite 

tuorum ! 
For which reason I would derive the name 
editor not so much from edo, to publish, as 
from edo, to eat, that being the peculiar pro- 
fession to which he esteems himself called. 
He blows up the flames of political discord 



for no other occasion than that he may there- 
by handily boil his own pot. I believe there 
are two thousand of these mutton-loving 
shepherds in the United States, and ol die ie, 
how many have even the dimmest perception 
of their immense power, and the dul 
sequent thereon? Here and there, liaply, 
one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine labor to 
impress upon the people the great principles 
of Tweedledum, and other nine hundred and 
ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness 
the gospel according to J weedtedce." — 
II. W.J 

I du believe in Freedom's cause, 

Ez fur away ez Payris is ; 
I love to see her stick her claws 

In them infarnal Phayrisees ; 
It 's wal enough agin a king 

To dror resolves an* triggers, — 
But libbaty 's a kind o' thing 

Thet don't agree with niggers. 

I du believe the people want 

A tax on teas an' coffees, 
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, — 

Purvidin' I *m in office ; 
Fer I hev loved my country sence 

My eye-teeth filled their sockets, 
An' Uncle Sam I reverence, 

Partic'larly his pockets. 

I du believe in any plan 

O' levyin' the taxes, 
Ez long ez, like a lumberman, 

I git jest wut I axes : 
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, 

Because it kind o' rouses 
The folks to vote, — an' keeps us in 

Our quiet custom-houses. 

I du believe it 's wise an' good 

To sen' out furrin missions, 
Thet is. on sartin understood 

An' orthydox conditions; — 
I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., 

Nine thousan' more fer outfit, 
An' me to recommend a man 

The place 'ould jest about fit. 

I du believe in special ways 

O' prayin' an' convartin' ; 
The bread comes back in many days, 

An' buttered, tu, fer sartin ; 
I mean in preyin' till one busts 

On wut the party chooses, 
An' in convartin' public trusts 

To very privit uses. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



205 



I du believe hard coin the stuff 

Fer 'lectioneers to spout on ; 
The people's oilers soft enough 

To make hard money out on ; 
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, 

An' gives a good-sized junk to all, — 
I don't care how hard money is, 

Ez long ez mine 's paid punctooal. 

I du believe with all my soul 

In the gret Press's freedom, 
To pint the people to the goal 

An' in the traces lead 'em ; 
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes 

At my fat contracts squintin', 
An' withered be the nose thet pokes 

Inter the gov'ment printin'! 

I du believe thet I should give 

Wut 's his'n unto Caesar, 
Fer it 's by him I move an' live, 

Frum him my bread an' cheese air ; 
I du believe thet all o' me 

Doth bear his superscription, — 
Will, conscience, honor, honesty, 

An' things o' thet description. 

I du believe in prayer an' praise 

To him that hez the grantin' 
O' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays, 

But most of all in Cantin' ; 
This doth my cup with marcies fill, 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest,- 
I don't believe in princerple, 

But O, I du in interest. 

I du believe in bein' this 

Or thet, ez it may happen 
One way or t'other hendiest is 

To ketch the people nappin' ; 
It aint by princerples nor men 

My preudunt course is steadied, — 
I scent wich pays the best, an' then 

Go into it baldheaded. 

I du believe thet holdin' slaves 

Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, 
Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves 

To hev a wal -broke precedunt ; 
Fer any office, small or gret, 

I could n't ax with no face, 
Without I 'd ben, thru dry an' wet, 

Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. 



I du believe wutever trash 

'11 keep the people in blindness, — 
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash 

Right inter brotherly kindness, 
Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 
V ball 

Air good-will 's strongest magnets, 
Thet peace, to make it stick at all, 

Must be druv in with bagnets. 

In short, I firmly du believe 

In Humbug generally, 
Fer it 's a thing thet I perceive 

To hev a solid vally ; 
This heth my faithful shepherd ben, 

In pasturs sweet heth led me, 
An' this '11 keep the people green 

To feed ez they hev fed me. 

[I subjoin here another passage from my 
before-mentioned discourse. 

" Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it 
rightly, is the newspaper. To me, for ex- 
ample, sitting on the critical front bench of 
the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the ad- 
vent of my weekly journal is as that of a 
stroling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, 
on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, 
comedy, and farce of life are played in little. 
Behold the whole huge earth sent to me heb- 
domadally in a brown-paper wrapper ! 

" Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or 
steam, on horseback or dromedary-back, in 
the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking 
over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous 
performers from the four quarters of the 
globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, 
tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets 
up his booth upon my desk and officiates as 
showman. Now I can truly see how little 
and transitory is life. The earth appears 
almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the 
solar microscope of the imagination must 
be brought to bear in order to make out 
anything distinctly. That animalcule there, 
in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just 
landed on the coast of England. That other, 
in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napo- 
leon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that 
she need apprehend no interference from him 
in the present alarming juncture. At that 
spot, where you seem to see a speck of some- 
thing in motion, is an immense mass-meeting. 
Look sharper, and you will see a mite bran- 
dishing his mandibles in an excited manner. 
That is the great Mr. Soandso, denning his 
position amid tumultuous and irrepressible 
cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon 
whom some score of others, as minute as he, 
are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a 
famous philosopher, expounding to a select 
audience their capacity for the Infinite. 



2o6 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and 
dust is a revolution. That speck there is a 
reformer, just arranging the lever with which 
he is to move the world. And lo, there creeps 
forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows 
one breath between its grinning teeth, and all 
our distinguished actors are whisked off the 
slippery stage into the dark Beyond. 

" Yes, the little show-box has its solemner 
suggestions. Now and then we catch a 
glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down a 
scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he 
shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim 
background, a weird shape is ever delving. 
Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and 
gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the 
newly married on their wedding jaunt, or 
glances carelessly at a babe brought home 
from christening. Suddenly (for the scene 
grows larger and larger as we look) a bony 
hand snatches back a performer in the midst 
of his part, and him, whom yesterday two in- 
finities (past and future) would not suffice, a 
handful of dust is enough to cover and silence 
forever. Nay, we see the same Aeshless fin- 
gers opening to clutch the showman himself, 
and guess, not without a shudder, that they 
are lying in wait for spectator also. 

" Think of it : for three dollars a year I buy 
a season-ticket to this great Globe Theatre, 
for which God would write the dramas (only 
that we like farces, spectacles, and the trag- 
edies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter 
is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by 
Death. 

" Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes 
as I am tearing off the wrapper of my news- 
paper. Then suddenly that otherwise too 
often vacant sheet becomes invested for me 
with a strange kind of awe. Look ! deaths 
and marriages, notices of inventions, discov- 
eries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, 
wounded, and missing, news of fires, acci- 
dents, of sudden wealth and as sudden pov- 
erty ; — I hold in my hand the ends of myriad 
invisible electric conductors, along which 
tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, 
hopes, and despairs of as many men and wo- 
men everywhere. So that upon that mood 
of mind which seems to isolate me from man- 
kind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, 
another supervenes, in which I feel that I, 
too, unknown and unheard of, am yet of some 
import to my fellows. For, through my 
newspaper here, do not families take pains to 
send me, an entire stranger, news of a death 
among them? Are not here two who would 
have ine know of their marriage? And, 
strangest of all, is not this singular person 
anxious to have me informed that he has re- 
ceived a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins? 
But to none of us does the Present continue 
miraculous (even if for a moment discerned 
as such). We glance carelessly at the sun- 
rise, and get used to Orion and the Pleiades. 
The wonder wears off, and to-morrow this 
sheet, in which a vision was let down to me 



from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar 
of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken 
victuals." — H. W.J 



No. VII. 
A LETTER 

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESI- 
DENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUES- 
TIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIG- 
LOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. 
BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR 
OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY 
STANDARD. 

[CURIOSITY may be said to be the quality 
which pre-eminently distinguishes and segre- 
gates man from the lower animals. As' we 
trace the scale of animated nature down- 
ward, we find this faculty (as it may truly be 
called) of the mind diminished in the savage, 
and quite extinct in the brute. The first ob- 
ject which civilized man proposes to himself I 
take to be the finding out whatsoever he can 
concerning his neighbors. Nihil kitmamtm 
a inc alienutn pnto ; I am curious about 
even John Smith. The desire next in strength 
to this (an opposite pole, indeed,' of the same 
magnet) is that of communicating the unin- 
telligence we have carefully picked up. 

Men in general may be divided into the in- 
quisitive and the communicative. To the 
first class belong Peeping Toms, eaves-drop- 
pers, navel-contemplating Brahmins, meta- 
physicians, travellers, Empedocleses, spies, 
the various societies for promoting Rhino- 
thism, Columbuses, Yankees, discoverers, 
and men of science, who present themselves 
to the mind as so many marks of interroga- 
tion wandering up and down the world, or 
sitting in studies and laboratories The sec- 
ond class I should again subdivide into four. 
In the first subdivision I would rank those 
who have an itch to tell us about themselves, 
— as keepers of diaries, insignificant persons 
generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles/ 
autcbioeraphers, poets. The second in- 
cludes those who are anxious to impart infor- 
mation concerning other people, — as histo- 
rians, barbers, and such. To the third be- 
long those who labor to give us intelligence 
about nothing at all, — as novelists, political 
orators, the large majority of authors, preach- 
ers, lecturers, and the like. In the fourth 
come those who are communicative from mo- 
tives of public benevolence, — as finders of 
mares'-nests and bringers of ill news. Each 
of us two-legged fowls without feathers em- 
braces all these subdivisions in himself to a 
greater or less degree, for none of us so 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



207 



much as lays an egg, or incubates a chalk 
one, but straightway the whole barnyard 
shall know it by our cackle or our cluck. 
Omnibus hoc vitiunt est. There are differ- 
ent grades in all these classes. One will turn 
his telescope toward a back-yard, another 
toward Uranus ; one will tell you that he 
dined with Smich, another that he supped 
with Plato. In one particular, all men may 
be considered as belonging to the first grand 
division, inasmuch as they all seem equally 
desirous of discovering the mote in their 
neighbor's eye. 

To one or another of these species every 
human being may safely be referred. I think 
it beyond a peradventure that Jonah prose- 
cuted some inquiries into the digestive appa- 
ratus of whales, and that Noah sealed up a 
letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard 
to him might not be wanting in case of the 
worst. They had else been super or subter 
human. I conceive, also, that, as there are 
certain persons who continually peep and pry 
at the key-hole; of that mysterious door 
through which, sooner or later, we all make 
our exits, so there are doubtless ghosts fidget- 
ing and fretting on the other side of it, be- 
cause they have no means of conveying back 
to this world the scraps of news they have 
picked up in that. For there is an answer 
ready somewhere to every question, the great 
law of give and take runs through all nature, 
and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an 
eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I 
meet a standing advertisement of informa- 
tion wanted in regard to A. B., or that the 
friends of C. D. can hear something to his 
disadvantage by application to such a one. 

It was to gratify the two great passions of 
asking and answering that epistolary corre- 
spondence was first invented. Letters (for 
by this usurped title epistles are now com- 
monly known) are of several kinds. First, 
there are those which are not letters at all, — 
as letters-patent, letters dimissory, letters en- 
closing bills, letters of administration, Pliny's 
letters, letters of diplomacy, of Cato, of 
Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, and 
Orrery, of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. 
Terome includes in his list of sacred writers) 
letters from abroad, from sons in college to 
their fathers, letters of marque, and letters 
generally, which are in no wise letters of 
mark. Second, are real letters, such as those 
of Gray Cowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, 
D. Y., the first letters from children (printed 
m staggering capitals), Letters from New 
York letters of credit, and others, interesting 
for the sake of the writer or the thing writ- 
ten. I have read also letters from EuroDe by 
a gentleman named Pinto, containing 'some 
curious gossip, and which I hope to see col- 
lected for the benefit of the curious. There 
are, besides, letters addressed to posterity — 
as epitaphs, for example, written for their 
own monuments by monarchs, whereby we 
fcave lately become possessed of the names 



of several great conquerors and kings of 
kings, hitherto unheard of and still unpro- 
nounceable, but valuable to the student of 
the entirely dark ages. The letter which St. 
Peter sent to King Pepin in the year of grace 
755, that of the Virgin to the magistrates of 
Messina, that of St. Gregory Thaumaturgus 
to the D— 1, and that of this last-mentioned 
active police-magistrate to a nun of Girgenti, 
I would place in a class by themselves, as 
also the letters of candidates, concerning 
which I shall dilate more fully in a note at 
the end of the following poem. At present, 
sat prata biberttnt. Only, concerning the 
shape of letters, they are all either square or 
oblong, to which general figures circular let- 
ters and round-robins also conform them- 
selves.— H. W.] 

Deer sir its gut to be the fashun 
now to rite letters to the candid 8s and 
i wus chose at a publick Meetin in 
Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that 
town, i writ to 271 ginerals and gut 
ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s 
but I don't see nothin candid about 
'em. this here 1 wich I send wus 
thought satty's factory. I dunno as it 's 
ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the 
ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it 
wus best, times has gretly changed. 
Formaly to knock a man into a cocked 
hat wus to use him up, but now it ony 
gives him a chance fur the cheef-mad- 
gustracy. — H. B. 

Dear Sir, — You wish to know my 
notions 

On sartin pints thet rile the land ; 
There 's nothin' thet my natur so shun9 

Ez bein' mum or underhand ; 
I 'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur 

Thet blurts right out wut's in hi? 
head, 
An' ef I 've one pecooler feetur, 

It is a nose thet wunt be Jed. 

So, to begin at the beginnin', 

An' come direcly to the pint, 
I think the country's underpinnin' 

Is some cotisid'ble out o' jint ; 
I aint agoin' to try your patience 

By tellin' who done this or thet, 
I don't make no insinooations, 

I jest let on I smell a rat. 

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, 
But, ef the public think I 'm wron$ 



208 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



I wunt deny but wut I be so, — 
An', fact, it don't smell very strong ; 

My mind 's tu fair to lose its balance 
An' say wich party hez most sense ; 

There may be folks o' greater talence 
Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. 

I 'm an eclectic ; ez to choosin' 

'Twixt this, an' thet, 1 'm plaguy 
lawth ; 
I leave a side thet looks like losin', 
But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to 
both ; 
I stan' upon the Constitution, 

Ez preudunt stalesmun say, who 've 
planned 
A way to git the most profusion 
O' chances ez to ware they '11 stand. 

Ez fer the war, I go agin it, — 

I mean to say I kind o' du, — 
Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, 

The best way wuz to fight it thru ; 
Not but wut abstract war is horrid, 

I sign to thet with all my heart, — 
But civlyzation doos git forrid 

Sometimes upon a powder-cart. 

About thet darned Proviso matter 

I never hed a grain o' doubt, 
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter 

So 'st no one could n't pick it out ; 
My love fer North an' South is equil, 

So I '11 jest answer plump an' frank, — 
No matter wut may be the sequil, — 

Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. 

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, 

I 'm an off ox at bein' druv, 
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns 

'11 give our folks a helpin' shove ; 
Kind o' promiscoous I go it 

Fer the holl country, an' the ground 
I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, 

Is pooty gen'ally all round. 

I don't apprnve o' givin' pledges ; 

You 'd ough' to leave a feller free, 
An' not go knockin' out the wedges 

To ketch his fingers in the tree ; 
Pledges air awfle breachy cattle 

Thet preudunt farmers don't turn 
out, — 
Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, 

Wut is there fer 'm to grout about ? 



Ez to the slaves, there 's no confusion 

In my idees consarnin' them, — 
/ think they air an Institution, 

A sort ot — yes, jest so, — ahem : 
Do /own any? Of my merit 

On thet pint you yourself may jedge ; 
All is, I never drink no sperit, 

Nor I haint never signed no pledge. 

Ez to my princerples, I glory 

In hevin' nothin' o' the sort ; 
I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, 

I 'm jest a candidate, in short ; 
Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler, 

But, ef the Public cares a fig 
To hev me an' thin' in particler, 

Wy, I 'm a kind o' peri-wig. 

P. S. 

Ez we 're a sort o' privateerin*, 

O' course, you know, it 's sheer an 
sheer, 
An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' 

I '11 mention m your privit ear ; 
Ef you git me inside the White House, 

Your head with ile 1 '11 kin' o' 'nint 
By gittin'>w* inside the Light-house 

Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. 

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' 

At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, 
I Ml tell ye wut '11 save all tusslin' 

An' give our side a harnsome boost,— 
Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question 

I 'm right, although to speak I 'm 
lawth ; 
This gives you a safe pint to rest on, 

An' leaves me frontin' South by 
North. 

[And now of epistles candidatial, which are 
of two kinds. — namely, letters of accept- 
ance, and letters definitive of position. Our 
republic, on the eve of an election, may safe- 
ly enough be called a republic of letters. 
Epistolary composition becomes then an epi- 
demic, which seizes one candidate after an- 
other, not seldom cutting short the thread of 
political life. It has come to such a pass, 
that a party dreads less the attacks of its op- 
ponents than a letter from i^s candidate. 
Life?-a scripta manet, and it will go hard if 
something bad cannot be made of it. Gen- 
eral Harrison, it is well understood, was sur- 
rounded, during his candidacy, with the cor- 
don sanitaire of a vigilance committee. No 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



209 



prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautious- 
ly deprived of writing- materials. The soot 
was scraped carefully from the chimney- 
places ; outposts of expert rifle-shooters 
rendered it sure death for any goose (who 
came clad in feathers) to approach within a 
certain limited distance of North Bend ; and 
all domestic fowls about the premises were 
reduced to the condition of Plato's original 
man. By these precautions the General was 
saved. Parua compojiere niagnis, I re- 
member, that, when party-spirit once ran 
high among my people, upon occasion of the 
choice of a new deacon, I, having my prefer- 
ences, yet not caring too openly to express 
them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring- 
about that result which I deemed most de- 
sirable. My stratagem was no other than the 
throwing a copy of the Complete Letter- 
Writer in the way of the candidate whom I 
wished to defeat. He .caught the infection, 
and addressed a short note to his constitu- 
ents, in which the opposite party detected so 
many and so grave improprieties (he had 
modelled it upon the letter of a young- lady 
accepting a proposal of marriage), that he 
not only lost his election, but, falling under a 
suspicion of Sabellianism and I know aot 
what (the widow Endive assured me that he 
was a Paralipomenon, to her certain knowl- 
edge), was forced to leave the town. Thus 
it is that the letter killeth. 

The object which candidates propose to 
themselves in writing is to convey no mean- 
ing at all. And here is a quite unsuspected 
pitfall into which they successively plunge 
headlong. For it is precisely in such crypto- 
graphies that mankind are prone to seek for 
and find a wonderful amount and variety of 
significance- Omne igiwtum pro mirifico. 
How do Ave admire at the antique world 
striving to crack those oracular nuts from 
Delphi, Hammon, and elsewhere, in only one 
of which can I so much as surmise that any 
kernel had ever lodged ; that, namely, where- 
in Apollo confessed that he was mortal. 
One Didymus is, moreover, related to have 
written six thousand books on the single 
subject of grammar, a topic rendered only 
more tenebrific by the labors of his succes- 
sors, and which seems still to possess an at- 
traction for authors in proportion as they can 
make nothing of it. A singular loadstone 
for theologians, also, is the Beast in the 
Apocalypse, whereof, in the course of my 
studies, I have noted two hundred and three 
Several interpretations, each lethiferal to all 
the rest. JVon nostrum est tantas componere 
lites, yet I have myself ventured upon a two 
hundred and fourth, which I embodied in a 
discourse preached on occasion of the de- 
mise of the late usurper, Napoleon Bona- 
parte, and which quieted, in a large meas- 
ure, the minds of my people. It is true that 
my views on this important point were ar- 
dently controverted by Mr. Shearjashub Hol- 
<ien, the then preceptor of our academy, 
14 



and in other particulars a very deserving and 
sensible young man, though possessing a 
somewhat limited knowledge of the Greek 
tongue. But his heresy struck down no deep 
root, and, he having been lately removed by 
the hand of Providence, I had the satisfaction 
of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a 
sermon preached upon the Lord's day im- 
mediately succeeding his funeral. This 
might seem like taking an unfair advantage, 
did I not add that he had made provision in 
his last will (being celibate) for the publica- 
tion of a posthumous tractate in support of 
his own dangerous opinions. 

1 know of nothing in our modern times 
which approaches so nearly to the ancient 
oracle as the letter of a Presidential candi- 
date. Now, among the Greeks, the eating 
of beans was strictly forbiaoWi to all such as 
had it in mind to consult those expert am- 
phibologists, and this same prohibition on the 
part of Pythagoras to his disciples is under- 
stood to imply an abstinence from politics, 
beans having been used as ballots- That 
other explication, quod videlicet sensus eo 
cibo obtundi existimaret, though supported 
pugniset calcibtis by many of the learned, 
and not wanting the countenance of Cicero, 
is confuted by the larger experience of New 
England. On the whole, I think it safer to 
apply here the rule of intrepretation which 
now generally obtains in regard to antique 
cosmogonies, myths, fables, proverbial ex- 
pressions, and knotty points generally, which 
is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then 
select whatever can be imagined the most 
opposite thereto. In this way we arrive at 
the conclusion, that the Greeks objected to 
the questioning of candidates. And very 
properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be 
not to discover what a person in that position 
is, or what he will do, but whether he can be 
elected- Vos exe7nplaria Gr&az twcturtia 
■versate manu, itersate dhirna. 

But, since an imitation of the Greeks in 
ihis particular (the asking of questions being 
one chief privilege of freemen) is hardly to 
be hoped for, and our candidates will an- 
swer, whether they are questioned or not, I 
would recommend that these ante-electionary 
dialogues should be carried on by symbols, 
as were the diplomatic correspondences of 
the Scythians and Macrobii, or confined to 
the language of s^ns, like the famous inter- 
view of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candi- 
date might then convey a suitable reply to 
all committees of inquiry by closing one eye, 
or by presenting them with a phial of Egyp- 
tian darkness to be speculated upon by their 
respective constituencies.. These answers 
would be susceptible of whatever retrospec- 
tive construction the exigencies of the polit- 
ical campaign might seem to demand, and 
the candidate could take his position on 
either side of the fence with entire consist- 
ency. Or, if letters must be written, profit- 
able use might be made of the Dighton rock 



THE B1GL01V PAPERS. 



hieroglyphic or the cuneiform script, every 
fresh decipherer of which is enabled to educe 
a different . meaning, whereby a sculptured 
stone or two supplies us, and will probably 
continue to supply posterity, with a very vast 
and various body of authentic history. For 
even the briefest epistle in the ordinary 
chirography is dangerous. There is scarce 
any style so compressed th.it superfluous 
words may not be detected in it. A severe 
critic might curtail that famous brevity of 
Caesar's by two thirds, drawing his pen 
through the supererogatory veni and vicii. 
Perhaps, after all, the surest footing of hope 
is to be found in the rapidly increasing 
tendency to demand less and less of qualifi- 
cation in candidates. Already have states- 
manship, experience, and the possession (nay, 
the professioi^even) of principles been re- 
jected as superfluous, and may not the pa- 
triot reasonably hope that the ability to write 
will follow? At present, there may be death 
in pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a 
letter may suffice for a bow-string, and all 
the dreadful heresies of Antislavery may 
lurk in a flourish. — H. W.] 



No. VIII. 

A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. 

[IN the following epistle, we behold Mr. 
Sawin returning, a miles emeritus, to the 
bosom of his family. Quantum mutatus ! 
The good Father of us all had doubtless in- 
trusted to the keeping of this child of his cer- 
tain faculties of a constructive kind. He 
had put in him a share of that vital force, the 
nicest economy of every minute atom of 
which is necessary to the perfect develop- 
ment of Humanity. He had given him a 
brain and heart, and so had equipped his 
soul with the two strong wings of knowledge 
and love, whereby it can mount to hang its 
nest under the eaves of heaven. And this 
child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the 
keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands 
the account of that stewardship? The State, 
or Society (call her by what name you will), 
had taken no manner of thought of him till 
she saw him swept out into the street, the 
pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with 
cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, 
slops, vile stenches, and the whole loathsome 
next-morning of the bar-room, — an own child 
©f the Almighty God 1 I remember him as 
he was brought to be christened, a ruddy, 
rugged babe ; and now there he wallows, 
reeking, seething, — the dead corpse, not of 
a man, but of a soul, — a putrefying lump, 
horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the 
wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and 
parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too 
nice to kiss those parched, cracked lips ; the 



morning opens upon him her eyes full of pity 
ing sunshine, the sky yearns down to him,— 
and there he lies fermenting. (J sleep ! let 
me not profane thy holy name by calling that 
stertorous unconsciousness a slumber! By 
and by comes along the State, God's vicar. 
Does she say, — "My poor, forlorn foster- 
child ! Behold here a forte which 1 will 
make dig and plant and build for me " ? Not 
so, but, — " Here is a recruit ready-made to 
my hand, a piece of destroying energy lying 
unprofitably idle." So she claps an ugly gray 
suit on him, puts a musket in his grasp, and 
sends him off, with Gubernatorial and other 
godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer. 

I made one of the crowd at the last Me- 
chanics' Fair, and, with the rest, stood gazing 
in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul 
of fire, its boiler-heart that sent the hot blood 
pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews 
of steel. And while 1 was admiring the 
adaptation of means to end, the harmonious 
involutions of contrivance, and the never- 
bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and 
greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey 
and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, 
at intervals, a drop or two of oil upon a cer- 
tain joint. Then my soul said within me. 
See there a piece of mechanism to which 
that other you marvel at is but as the rude 
first effort of a child, — a force which not 
merely suffices to set a few wheels in motion, 
but which can send an impulse all through 
the infinite future, — a contrivance, not for 
turning out pins, or stitching button-holes, 
but for making Hamlets and Lears. And 
yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited 
on, guarded from rust and dust, and it shall 
be a crime but so much as to scratch it with 
a pin ; while the other, with its fire of God in 
it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and 
finally sent carefully a thousand miles to be 
the target for a Mexican cannon-ball. Un- 
thrifty Mother State ! My heart burned 
within me for phy and indignation, and I 
renewed this covenant with my own soul, — In 
aliis mansitetus ero, at, in blasphemiis con* 
tra Chris turn, non ita. — H. W.] 

I spose you wonder ware I be ; I can't 

tell, fer the soul o' me, 
Exacly ware I be myself, — meanin' by 

thet the holl o' me. 
Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an* 

they worn't bad ones neither, 
(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz 

bringin' on me hither,) 
Now one on 'em's I dunno ware; — 

they thought I wuz adyin', 
An' sawed it off.because they said 't wuz 

kin' o' mortifyin' ; 
I *m willin' to believe it wuz, an yit I 

don't see, nuther, 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a 

minnit sooner 'n t' other, 
Sence both wuz equilly to blame ; but 

things is ez they be ; 
It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's 

enough fer me : 
There 's one good thing, though, to be 

said about my wooden new one, — 
The liquor can't git into it ez 't used to 

in the true one ; 
So it saves drink ; an' then, besides, a 

feller could n't beg 
A gretter blessin' then to hev one oilers 

sober peg ; 
It's true a chap's in want o* two fer 

follerin' a drum, 
But all the march I 'm up to now is jest 

to Kingdom Come. 

] 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's 

easy to supply 
Out o' the glory that I 've gut, fer thet 

is all my eye ; 
An' one is big enough, I guess, by 

diligently usin' it, 
To see all I shall ever git byway o' pay 

fer losin' it ; 
OfPcers, I notice, who git paid fer all 

our thumps an' kickins, 
Pu wal by keepin' single eyes arter the 

fattest pickins ; 
So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I '11 larn 

to go without it, 
An' not allow myself "to be no gret put 

out about it. 
Now, le' me see, thet isn't all ; I used, 

'fore leavin' Jaalam, 
To count things on my finger-eends, 

but sutthin' seems to ail 'em : 
Ware 's my left hand? O, darn it, yes, 

I recollect wut 's come on 't ; 
I haint no left arm but my right, an* 

thet 's gut jest a thumb on 't ; 
It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a 

sum on 't. 
I've hed some ribs broke, — six (I 

b'lieve), — I haint kep* no ac- 
count on 'em ; 
Wen pensions git to be the talk, I '11 

settle the amount on 'em. 
An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it 

kin' o' brings to mind 
One thet I couldn't never break, — the 
- one I lef behind ; 



Ef you should see her, jest clear out the 

spout o' your invention 
An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about 

an annooal pension, 
An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the 

critter should refuse to be 
Consoled) I aint so 'xpensive now to 

keep ez wut I used to be ; 
There 's one arm less, ditto one eye, 

an' then the leg thet 's wooden 
Can be took off an' sot away wenever 

ther's a puddin'. 



I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez 

opperlunt ez thunder, 
With shiploads o' gold images an' varus 

sorts o' plunder ; 
Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this 

country wuz a sort o' 
Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Landflowin' 

with rum an' water, 
Ware propaty growed up like time, 

without no cultivation, 
An' gold wuz 'dug ez taters be among 

our Yankee nation, 
Ware nateral advantages were pufficly 

amazin', 
Ware every rock there wuz about with 

precious stuns wuz blazin', 
Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez 

thick ez you could cram 'em, - 
An' desput rivers run about abeggin' 

folks to dam 'em ; 
Then there were meetinhouses, tu, 

chockful o' gold an' silver 
Thet you could take, an' no one couldn't 

hand ye in no bill fer ; — 
Thet 's wut I thought afore I went, 

thet 's wut them fellers told us 
Thet stayed to hum an* speechified an' 

to the buzzards sold us ; 
I thought thet gold mines could be gut 

cheaper than Chiny asters, 
An' see myself acomin* back like sixty 

Jacob Astors ; 
But sech idees soon melted down an* 

did n't leave a grease-spot ; 
I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles 

would n't come nigh a V spot ; 
Although, most anywares we've ben, 

you needn't break no locks, 
Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your 

pocket full o' rocks. 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



I guess I mentioned in my last some o' 

the nateral feeturs 
O' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way 

o' awfle creeturs, 
But I fergut to name (new things to 

speak on so abounded) 
How one day you '11 most die o' thust, 

an' 'tore the next git drownded. 
The clymit seems to me jest like a tea- 
pot made o' pewter 
Our Prudence hed, thet wouldn't pour 

(all she could du) to suit her ; 
Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the 

spout, so 's not a drop 'ould dreen 

out, 
Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, 

till the holl kit bust clean out, 
The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea- 
leaves an' tea an' kiver 
'ould all come down kerswosh ! ez 

though the dam broke in a river. 
Jest so 't is here ; holl months there 

aint a day o' rainy weather, 
An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' 

heads together 
Ez t' how they 'd mix their drink at 

sech a milingtary deepot, — 
*T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off 

the everlastin' teapot. 
The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, 

wen 1 'm allowed to leave here, 
One piece o' propaty along, — an' thet 's 

the shakin' fever ; 
It'sreggilar employment, though, an' 

thet aint thought to harm one, 
Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with 

t' other leg an' arm on ; 
An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it 

doos n't pay, 
To hev it said you 're some gret shakes 

in any kin' o' way. 
'Tworn't very long, I tell ye wort, I 

thought o' fortin-makin', — 
One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an* 

next ez good ez bakin', — 
One day abrilin' in the sand, then 

smoth'rin' in the mashes, — 
Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess 

o' hacks an' smashes. 
But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's 

glory to be hed, — 
Thet 's an investment, arter all, thet 

may n't turn out so bad ; 
But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, 

I oilers found the thanks 



Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez 

low down ez the ranks ; 
The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the 

Cunnles next, an' so on, — 
We never gut a blasted mite o' glory 

ez I know on ; 
An' spose we hed, I wonder how you 're 

goin' to contrive its 
Division so 's to give a piece to twenty 

thousand privits; 
Ef you should multiply by ten the por- 
tion o' the brav'st one, 
You would n't git more 'n half enough 

to speak of on a grave-stun ; 
We git the licks, — we 're jest the grist 

thet 's put into War's hoppers ; 
Leftenants is the lowest grade thet 

helps pick up the coppers. 
It may suit folks thet go agin a body 

with a soul in 't, 
An' aint contented with a hide without 

a bagnet hole in 't ; 
But glory is a kin' o' thing / sha' n't 

pursue no furder, 
Coz thet 's the off'cers parquisite, — 

yourn 's on'y jest the murder. 

Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at 

least there 's one 
Thing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' 

thet 's the glorious fun ; 
Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly 

may persume we 
All day an' night shall revel in the halls 

o' Montezumy. 
I '11 tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see 

how you would like 'em ; 
We never gut inside the hall : the nigh- 

est ever / come 
Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', 

fact, it seemed a cent'ry) 
A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet 

come out thru the entry, 
An' hearin' ez I sweltered thru my 

passes an' repasses, 
A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a 

clinkty-clink o' glasses : 
I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'- 
rals hed inside ; 
All I know is, thet out o' doors a pair 

o' soles wuz fried, 
An' not a hunderd miles away frum 

ware this child wuz posted, 
A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' 

biled an' roasted ; 



THE BIGLOJV PAPERS. 



213 



The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever 

come to me 
Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet 

darned revelee. 



They say the quarrel 's settled now ; fer 

my part I 've some doubt on 't, 
'T'll take more fish-skin than folks think 

to take the rile clean out on 't ; 
At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do 

no more fightin', 
The on'y chance thet 's left to me is 

politics or writin' ; 
Now, ez the people 's gut to hev a mil- 

ingtary man, 
An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I 've 

hit upon a plan ; 
The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould 

suit me to a T, 
An' ef I lose, 'twunt hurt my ears to 

lodge another flea ; 
So I '11 set up ez can'idate fer any kin' 

o' office, 
(I mean fer any thet includes good easy- 
cheers an' softies ; 
Fer ez tu runnin' fer a place ware 

work 's the time o' day, 
You know thet 's wut I never did, — 

except the other way ;) 
Ef it 's the Presidential cheer fer wich 

I 'd better run, 
Wut two legs anywares about could 

keep up with my one ? 
There aint no kin' o' quality in can'i- 

dates, it 's said, 
So useful ez a wooden leg, — except a 

wooden head ; 
There [s nothin' aint so poppylar — (wy, 

it 's a parfect sin 
To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy 

Army's pin ;) — 
Then I haint gut no princerples, an', 

sence I wuz knee-high, 
I never did hev any gret, ez you can 

testify ; 
I 'm a decided peace-man, tu, an' go 

agin the war, — 
Fer now the holl on 't 's gone an' past, 

wut is there to go for ? 
Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, 

some curus chaps should beg 
To know my views o' state affairs, jest 

answer wooden leg ! 



Ef they aint settisfied with thet, an' kin* 

o' pry an' doubt 
An' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest say 

ONE EYE PUT OUT ! 

Thet kin' o' talk I guess you '11 find '11 

answer to a charm, 
An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, 

hoi' up my missin' arm ; 
Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, 

put on a vartoous look 
An' tell 'em thet 's percisely wut I 

never gin nor — took ! 

Then you can call me " Timbertoes," 

— thet 's wut the people likes ; 
Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with 

phrases sech ez strikes ; 
Some say the people 's fond o' this, or 

thet, or wut you please, — 
I tell ye wut the people want is jest cor- 
rect idees ; 
" Old Timbertoes," you see, 's a creed 

it 's safe to be quite bold on, 
There 's nothin' in 't the other side can 

any ways git hold on ; 
It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to 

embody 
Thet valooable class o' men who look 

thru brandy-toddy ; 
It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level 

with the mind 
Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet 

mean to go it blind ; 
Then there air other good hooraws to 

dror on ez you need 'em, 
Sech ez the one-eyed Slarterer, the 

BLOODY BlRDOFREDUM ; 

Them 's wut takes hold o' folks thet 
think, ez well ez o' the masses, 

An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good 
men of all classes. 

There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about ; 
in order to be Presidunt, 

It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a South- 
ern residunt ; 

The Constitution settles thet, an* also 
thet a feller 

Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet 
black, or brown, or yeller. 

Now I haint no objections agin par- 
ticklar climes, 

Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the 
truth sometimes), 



*I+ 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



But, tt. I haint no capital, up there 

among ye, maybe, 
You might raise funds enough fer me to 

buy a low-priced baby, 
An' then to suit the No'thern folks, 

who feel obleeged to say 
They hate an' cuss the very thing they 

vote fer every day, 
Say you 're assured I go full butt fer 

Libbaty's diffusion 
An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite 

the Institootion ; — 
But, golly ! there 's the currier's hoss 

upon the pavement pawin'l 
I '11 be more 'xplicit in my next. 

Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 

[We have now a tolerably fair chance of es- 
timating how the balance-sheet stands be- 
tween our returned volunteer and glory. Sup- 
posing- the entries to be set down on both 
sides of the account in fractional parts of one 
hundred, we shall arrive at something like 
the following result : — 

B. Savvin, Esq., in account with (BLANK) 
GLORY. 
Cr. Dr. 

By loss of one leg, 20 To one 675th three 
" do. one arm, 15 cheers in Fan- 

" do. four fin- euil Hall, . 30 

gers, . . 5 " do. do. on 
" do. one eye, 10 occasion of 

" the breaking of presentation of 

six ribs, . 6 sword to Col- 

" having served onel Wright, 25 

under Colonel " one suit of 

Cushing one gray clothes 

[_ month, . 44 (ingeniously un- 

becoming), . 15 
" musical enter- 
tainments (drum 
and fife six 
months), . . 5 
" one dinnerafter 

return, . . 1 
" chance of pen- 
sion, . . 1 
" privilege of 
drawing long- 
bow during rest 
of natural life, 23 



E. E. 

It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the 
actual feast curiously the reverse of the bill 
of fare advertised in Faneuil Hall and other 
places. His primary object seems to have 
been the making of his fortune. Qiuertnda 



pecunia primunt, virtus post nummos. He 
hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecktd 
on Point Tribulation. Quid non mortalia 
pectora cogis, a it ri sacra /atnes t The spec- 
ulation has sometimes crossed my mintl, in 
that dreary interval of drought which inter- 
venes between quarterly stipendiary showers, 
that Providence, by the creation of a money- 
tree, might have simplified wonderfully the 
sometimes perplexing problem o human life. 
We read of bread-trees, the butter for which 
lies ready-churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees 
we are assured of in South America, and stout 
Sir John Hawkins testifies to water-trees in 
the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly 
in Lynn and elsewhere ; and 1 have seen, in 
the entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a 
fair show of fruit. A family-tree I once cub 
tivated myself, and found therefrom but a 
scanty yield, and that quite tasteless and in- 
nutritious. Of trees bearing men we are not 
without examples; as those in the park of 
Louis the Eleventh of France, who lias 
forgotten, moreover, that olive-tree, growing 
in the Athenian's back-garden, with its 
strange uxorious crop, for the general prop- 
agation of which, as of a new and precious 
variety, the philosopher Diogenes, hitherto 
uninterested in arboriculture, was so zealous? 
In the sylva of our own Southern States, the 
females of my family have called my attention 
to the china-tree. Not to multiily examples, 
I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in 
the smaller brandies of which has been im- 
planted so miraculous a virtue for communi- 
cating the Latin and Greek languages, and 
which may well, therefore, be classed among 
the trees producing necessaries of life, — 
venerabile donum fatalis virgce. That 
money-trees existed in the golden age there 
want not prevalent reasons for our believing. 
For does not the old proverb, when it as- 
serts that money does not grow on every 
bush, imply a fortiori that there were certain 
bushes which did produce it? Again, there 
is another ancient saw to the effect that 
money is the root of all evil. From which 
two adages it may be safe to infer that the 
aforesnid species of tree first degenerated 
into a shrub, then absconded underground, 
and finally, in our iron age, vanished alto- 
gether. In favorable exposures it may te 
conjectured that a specimen or two survived 
to a great age, as in the garden of the Hes- 
perides ; and, indeed, what else could that 
tree in the Sixth /Eneid have been, with a 
branch whereof the Trojan hero procured 
admission to a territory, for the entering of 
which money is a surer passport than to a 
certain other more profitable (too) foreign 
kingdom? Whether these speculations of 
mine have any force in them, or whetner they 
will not rather, by most readers, be deemed 
impertinent to the matter in hand, is a 
question which I leave to the determination 
of an indulgent posterity. That there were, 
in more primitive and happier times, shops 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



215 



where money was sold, — and that, too, 
on credit and at a bargain, — I take to be 
matter of demonstration. For what but a 
dealer in this article was that Mollis who 
supplied Ulysses with motive power for his 
fleet in bags ? What that Ericus, king of 
Sweden, who is said to have kept the winds 
in his cap ? what, in more recent times, those 
Lapland Nomas who traded in favorable 
breezes ? All which will appear the more 
clearly when we consider, that, even to this 
day, raising the wind is proverbial for rais- 
ing money, and that brokers and banks were 
invented by the Venetians at a later period. 

And now for the improvement of this di- 
gression. I find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's 
fortune in an adventure of my own. For, 
shortly after I had first broached to myself 
the before-stated natural-historical and ar- 
chaeological theories, as I was passing, hcec 
negotia penitus mecum revolziens, through 
one of the obscure suburbs of our New Eng- 
land metropolis, my eye was attracted by 
these words upon a sign-board, — CHEAP 
CASH-STORE. Here was at once the con- 
firmation of my speculations, and the sub- 
stance of my hopes. Here lingered the frag- 
ment of a happier past, or stretched out the 
first tremulous organic filament of a more for- 
tunate future. Thus glowed the distant 
Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, as he looked 
through the dirty pane of the recruiting-office 
window, cr speculated from the summit of 
that mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the 
bottle are so cunning in raising up. Already 
had my Alnaschar-fancy (even during that 
first half-believing glance) expended in vari- 
ous useful directions the funds to be obtained 
by pledging the manuscript of a proposed 
volume of discourses. Already did a clock 
ornament the tower of the Jaalam meeting- 
house, a gift appropriately, but modestly, 
commemorated in the parish and town rec- 
ords, both, for now many years, kept by my- 
self. Already had my son Seneca completed 
his course at the University. Whether, for 
the moment, we may not be considered as 
actually lording it over those Baratarias with 
the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, 
and whether we are ever so warmly housed 
as in our Spanish castles, would afford mat- 
ter of argument. Enough that I found that 
sign-board to be no other than a bait to the 
trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, 
I bought a pound of dates (getting short 
weight by reason of immense flights of harpy 
flies who pursued and lighted upon their 

frey even in the very scales), which purchase 
made, not only with an eye to the little ones 
at home, but also as a figurative reproof of 
that too frequent habit of my mind, which, 
forgetting the due order of chronology, will 
often persuade me that the happy sceptre 
of Saturn is stretched over this Astraea- 
forsaken nineteenth century. 

Having glanced at the ledger of Glory un- 
der the title Sawin, £., let us extend our in- 



vestigations, and discover If that **Sstr:ictive 
volume does not contra Some ^larp- *2s more 
personally interesting to ourselves. I think 
we should be more economical of our re- 
sources, did we thoroughly appreciate the 
fact, that, whenever Brother Jonathan seems 
to be thrusting his hand into his own pocket, 
he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess that 
the late muck which the country has been 
running has materially changed my views as 
to the best method of raising revenue. If, by 
means of direct taxation, the bills for every 
extraordinary outlay were brought under our 
immediate eye, so that, like thrifty house- 
keepers, we could see where and how fast 
the money was going, we should be less 
likely to commit extravagances. At present, 
these things are managed in such a hugger- 
mugger way, that we know not what we pay 
for ; the poor man is charged as much as the 
rich ; and, while we are saving and scrimp- 
ing at the spigot, the government is drawing 
oft" at the bung. If we could know that a 
part of the money we expend for tea and 
coffee goes to buy powder and. balls, and that 
it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes 
on our backs more costly, it would set some of 
us athinking. During the present fall, I have 
often pictured to myself a government official 
entering my study and handing me the fol- 
lowing bill : — 

Washington, Sept. 30, 1848. 
Rev. Homer Wilbur to.®ncle .Samuel, 

Dr. 

To his share of work done in Mexico on 
partnership account, sundry jobs, 
as below. 

" killing, maiming, and wounding 

about 5,000 Mexicans, . . . $2.00 

" slaughtering one woman carrying 

water to wounded, . . . .10 

" extra work on two different Sabbaths 
(one bombardment and one as- 
sault) whereby the Mexicans 
were prevented from defiling 
themselves with the idolatries of 
high mass, . . . .3.3° 

" throwing an especially fortunate an^ 
Protestant bombshell into the 
Cathedral at Vera Cruz, whereby 
several female Papists were slain 
at the altar, . . . . .50 

" his proportion of cash paid for con- 
quered territory 1.75 

" do. do. for conquering do. 1.50 

" manuring do. with new superior 
compost called "American Citi- 
zen," ...... .50 

" extending the area of freedom and 

Protestantism, . . . . .01 

" glory, or 

- $9-87 

Immediate payment is requested. 



2l6 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



N. B. Thankful for former favors, U. S. 
requests a continuance of patronage. Or- 
ders executed with neatness and despatch. 
Terms as low as those of any other contractor 
for the same kind and style of work. 

I can fancy the official answering my look 
of horror with, — " Yes, Sir, it looks like a 
high charge, Sir ; but in these days slaughter- 
ing is slaughtering." Verily, I would that 
every one understood that it was ; for it goes 
about obtaining money under the false pre- 
tence of being glory. For me, I have an 
imagination which plays me uncomfortable 
tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see 
a slaughterer on his way home front his day's 
work, and forthwith my imagination puts a 
cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon 
his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate 
for the Presidency. So, also, on a recent 
public occasion, as the place assigned to the 
" Reverend Clergy " is just behind that of 
"Officers of the Army and Navy ' in pro- 
cessions, it was my fortune to be seated at 
the dinner-table over against one <>f these 
respectable persons. lie was arrayed as 
(out of his own profession) only kings, court- 
officers, and footmen are in Europe, and 
Indians in America. Now what does my 
over-officious imagination but set to work 
upon him, strip Mm of his gay livery, and 
present him to me coatle->s, his trowsers 
thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick 
with clotted blood, and a basket on his arm 
out of which lolled a gore-smeared axe, 
thereby destroying my relUh for the tem- 

6 oral mercies upon the board before me I — 
I. w.i 



No. IX. 



A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. 

[Upon the following letter slender com- 
ment will be needful. In what river Sclem- 
nus has Mr. Sawin bathed, that he has be- 
come so swiftly oblivious of his former loves? 
From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) con- 
fident wooer of that coy bride, the popular 
favor, we see him subside of a sudden into 
the (I trust not jilted) Cincinnatus, returning 
to his plough with a goodly sized branch of 
willow in his hand ; figuratively returning, 
however, to a figurative plough, and from no 
profound affection for that honored imple- 
ment of husbandry (for which, indeed, Mr. 
Sawin never displayed any decided predilec- 
tion), but in order to be gracefully summoned 
therefrom to more congenial labors. It would 
seem that the character of the ancient Dic- 
tator had become part of the recognized 
stock of our modern political comedy, though, 
as our term of office extends to a quadrennial 
length, the parallel is not so minutely exact 



as could be desired. It is sufficiently so, 
however, for purposes of scenic representa- 
tion. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the 
better) forms the Arcadian background of 
the stage. This rusbc paradise is labelled 
Ashland, Jaalam, .North Bend, Marshiield, 
Kinderhook, or Baton Rouge, as o 
demands. Before the door stands a some- 
thing with one handle (the other painted 
in proper perspective), which represents, in 
happy ideal vagueness, the plough. To this 
the defeated candidate rushes with delirious 
joy, welcomed as a father by appropriate 
groups of happy laborers, or from it the suc- 
cessful one is torn with difficulty, sustained 
alone by a noble sense of public duty, Only 
I have observed, that, if the scene DC laid at 
Baton Rouge or Ashland, the laborers are 
kept carefully in the background, and are 
heard to shout from behind the scenes in a 
singular tone resembling uhil ation, and ac- 
companied by a sound not unlike vigorous 
clapping. This, however, may be artistically 

in Keeping 1 with the habits of the rustic popu- 
lation of those localities. The precise con- 
nection between agricultural pursuits and 
statesmanship, 1 have not been able, after 
diligent inquiry, to discover. But, that my 
investigations may not be barren of all fruit, 
I will mention one curious statistical fact, 
which I consider thoroughly established, 
namely, that no real farmer ever attains 

(Tactically beyond a seat in General Court, 
lowever theoretically qualified for more ex- 
alted station. 

It is probable that some other prospect has 
been opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has 
not made this great sacrifice without some 
definite understanding in regard to a seat in 
the cabinet or a foreign mission. It may be 
supposed that we of laalam were not un- 
touched by a feeling of villatic pride in be- 
holding our townsman occupying so large a 
space in the public eye. And to me, deeply 
revolving the qualifications necessary to a 
candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. 
S. seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful 
campaign. The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, 
and four fingers, reduced him so nearly to 
the condition of a vox et prceterea nihil, that 
I could think of nothing but the loss of his 
head by which his chance could have been 
bettered. But since he has chosen to balk 
our suffrages, we must content ourselves with 
what we can get, remembering lactucas non 
essedandas, dutn cardui snjficiant. — H. W.] 

I spose you recollect thet I explained 

my gennle views 
In the last billet thet I writ, 'way down 

frum Veery Cruze, 
Jest arter I 'd a kind o' ben sponta- 

nously sot up 
To run unanimously fer the Presidential 

cup ; ' 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



217 



O' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 

't wuz ferflely distressin', 
But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty 

pressin' 
Thet, though like sixty all along I 

fumed an' fussed an' sorrered, 
There didn't seem no ways to stop 

their bringin' on me forrerd : 
Fact is, they udged the matter so, I 

couldn't help admittin' 
The Father o' his Country's shoes no 

feet but mine 'ould fit in, 
Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages 

to succeed, 
Seem' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 

'd be more 'n I need ; 
An', tell ye wut, them shoes '11 want a 

thund'rin sight o' patchin', 
Ef this 'ere fashion is to last we 'vegut 

into o' hatchin' 
A pair o' second Washintons fer every 

new election, — 
Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, 

I don't make no objection. 

I wuz agoin' on to say thet wen at fust 

I saw 
The masses would stick to 't I wuz the 

Country's father-'n-law, 
(They would ha' hed it Father, but I 

told 'em 't would n't du, 
Coz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they 

could n't split in tu, 
An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid 

fairly to his door. 
Nor darsn't say 't worn't his'n, much 

ez sixty year afore,) 
But 't aint no matter ez to thet ; wen I 

wuz nomernated, 
'T worn't natur but wut I should feel 

consid'able elated, 
An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz 

kind o' noo an' fresh, 
I thought our ticket would ha' caird the 

country with a resh. 

Sence I 've come hum, though, an' 

looked round, I think I seem to 

find 
Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to 

make me change my mind ; 
It 's clear to any one whose brain aint 

fur gone in a phthisis, 
Thet hail Columby's happy landisgoin' 

thru a crisis, 



An' 'twould n't noways du to hev the 

people's mind distracted 
By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar 

names attackted ; 
'T would save holl haycartloads o' fuss 

an' three four months o' jaw, 
Ef some illustrous paytriot should back 

out an' withdraw ; 
So, ez I aint a crooked stick, jest like — 

like ole (I swow, 
I dunno ez I know his name) — I'll 

go back to my plough. 

Wenever an Amerikin distinguished 

politishin 
Begins to try et wut they call definin' 

his posishin, 
Wal, I, fer one, feel sure he aint gut 

nothin' to define ; 
It 's so nine cases out o' ten, but jest 

that tenth is mine ; 
And 'taint no more'n is proper 'n' 

right in sech a sitooation 
To hint the course you think '11 be the 

savin' o' the nation ; 
To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife aint 

thought to be the thing, 
Without you deacon off the toon you 

want your folks should sing ; 
So I edvise the noomrous friends thet 's 

in one boat with me 
To jest up killock, jam right down their 

helium hard a lee, 
Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out 

upon the Suthun tack, 
Make fer the safest port they can, wich, 

/ think, is Ole Zack. 

Next thing you'll want to know, I 

spose, wut argimunts I seem 
To see thet makes me think this ere '11 

be the strongest team ; 
Fust place, I 've ben consid'ble round 

in bar-rooms an' saloons 
Agethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst 

Demmercrats and Coons, 
An' 'taint ve'y offen thet I meet a chap 

but wut goes in a 
Fer Rough an' Readj#tair an' square, 

hufs, taller, hofns, an' skin ; 
I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez 

I could see, 
I did n't like at fust the Pheladelphy 

nomernee : 



2l8 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



I could ha' pinted to a man thet wuz, I 

guess, a peg 
Higher than him, — a soger, tu, an' with 

a wooden leg ; 
But every day with more an' more o' 

Taylor zeal I 'm burnin', 
Seem' wich way the tide thet sets to 

office is aturnin' ; 
Wy, into Bellers's we notched the votes 

down on three sticks, — 
'Twuz Birdofredum one, Cass aught, 

an' Taylor twenty-six, 
An' bein the on'y canderdate thet wuz 

upon the ground, 
They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet 

I should pay the drinks all round ; 
Ef I 'd expected sech a trick, I wouldn't 

ha' cut my foot 
By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a con- 
sumed coot ; 
It didn't make no difference, though; 

I wish 1 may be cust, 
Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say 

he would n't trust I 

Another pint thet influences the minds 

o' sober jedges 
Is thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand 

an' foot with pledges ; 
He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so 

there aint no knowin' 
But wut he may turn out to be the best 

there is agoin' ; 
This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the 

shoe directly eases, 
Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely 

wut he pleases : 
I want free-trade ; you don't ; the Gin- 
'ral isn't bound to neither; — 
I vote my way ; you, yourn ; an' both 

air sooted to a T there. 
Ole Rough an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but 

without bein' ultry 
(He 's like a holsome hayinday, thet's 

warm, but is n't sultry ; 
He 's jest wut I should call myself, a 

kin' o' scratch ez 't ware, 
Thet aint exacly all a wig nor wholly 

your own hair ; 
I 've ben a Wig three weeks myself, 

jest o' this mod'rate sort, 
An' don't find them an' Demmercrats 

so different ez I thought ; 
They both act pooty much alike, an' 

push an' scrouge an' cus ; 



They 're like two pickpockets in league 
fer Uncle Samwell's pus ; 

Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze 
the old man in between 'em, 

Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' 
quick ez lightnin' clean 'em ; 

To nary one on 'em I 'd trust a secon'- 
handed rail 

No furder off 'an I could sling a bul- 
lock by the tail. 

Webster sot matters right in thet air 

Mashfiel' speech o' his'n ; — 
" Taylor," sez he, " aint nary ways the 

one thet I 'd a chizzen, 
Nor he aint fittin' fer the place, an' 

like ez not he aint 
No more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' 

no gret of a saint ; 
But then," sez he, " obsarve my pint, 

he 's jest ez good to vote fer 
Ez though the greasin' on him worn't 

a thing to hire Choate fer ; 
Aint it ez easy done to drop a ballot in 

a box 
Fer one ez 't is fer t' other, fer the bull- 
dog ez the fox?" 
It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez 

big ez all ou' doors, 
To find out thet it looks like rain arter 

it fairly pours ; 
I 'gree with him, it aint so dreffle 

troublesome to vote 
Fer Taylor arter all, — it 's jest to go 

an' change your coat ; 
Wen he 's once greased, you '11 swaller 

him an' never know on 't, scurce, 
Unless he scratches, goin' down, with 

them 'ere Gin'ral's spurs. 
I 've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg- 

'laras a clock, 
But don't find goin' Taylor gives my 

narves no gret 'f a shock ; 
Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever 

sence fust they found 
Wich side the bread gut buttered on, 

hev kep' a edgin' round ; 
They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out 

th' ole platform one by one 
An' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks 

know'd wut wuz done, 
Till, fur'z I know, there aint an inch 

thet I could lay my han' on, 
But I, or any Demmercrat, feels com- 

ftable to stau' on, 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



219 



An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their 
occ'pants bein' gone, 

Lonesome ez staddles on a mash with- 
out no hayrick* on. 

I spose it 's time now I should give my 

thoughts upon the plan, 
Thet chipped the shell at .Buffalo, o' 

settin' up ole Van. 
I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, 

I 'm clean disgusted, — 
He aint the man thet I can say is fittin' 

' to be trusted ; 
He aint half antislav'ry 'nough, nor I 

aint sure, ez some be. 
He 'd go in fer abolishin' the Deestrick 

o' Columby ; 
An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' 

makes me sick 'z 
A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in 

eighteen thirty-six. 
An' then, another thing ; — I guess, 

though mebby I am wrong, 
This Buff' lo plaster aint agoin' to dror 

almighty strong ; 
Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee 

thet No'thun dough '11 rise, 
Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I 

would n't trust my eyes ; 
'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, 

. than this noo party 's gut, 
To give sech heavy cakes ez them a 

start, I tell ye wut. 
But even ef they caird the day, there 

would n't be no endurin' 
To stan' upon a platform with sech 

critters ez Van Buren ; — 
An' his son John, tu, I can't think how 

thet 'ere chap should dare 
To speak ez he doos ; wy, they say he 

used to cuss an' swear ! 
I spose he never read the hymn thet 

tells how down the stairs 
A feller with long legs wuz throwed 

thet would n't say his prayers. 
This brings me to another pint : the 

leaders o' the party 
Aint jest sech men ez I can act along 

with free an' hearty ; 
They aint not quite respectable, an' 

wen a feller's morrils 
Don't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, 

wy, him an' me jest quarrils. 
I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' 

wut d' ye think I see ? 



A feller was aspoutin' there thet act'lly 

come to me, 
About two year ago last spring, ez nigh 

ez I can jedge, 
An' axed me ef I did n't want to sign 

the Temprunce pledge ! 
He 's one o' them that goes about an' 

sez you hed n't ough' ter 
Drink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, 

stronger 'an Taunton water. 
There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, 

in settlin' how to vote, oilers, — 
I take the side thet is «7took by them 

consarned teetotallers. 

Ez fer the niggers, I 've ben South, an' 

thet hez changed my mind ; 
A lazier, more ongrateful set you could 

n't nowers find. 
You know I mentioned in my last thet 

I should buy a nigger, 
Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty 

mod' rate figger ; 
So, ez there 's nothin' in the world I 'm 

fonder of 'an gunnin', 
I closed a bargain finally to take a fel- 
ler runnin'. 
I shou'dered queen 's-arm an' stumped 

out, an' wen I comet' th' swamp, 
'T wom't very long afore I gut upon 

the nest o' Pomp ; 
I come acrost a kin' o' hut, an', playin' 

round the door, 
Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez 

many 'z six or more. 
At fust I thought o' firm', but think 

twice is safest oilers ; 
There aint, thinks I, not one on 'em 

but 's wuth his twenty dollars, 
Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a 

Christian land, — 
How temptin' all on 'em would look 

upon an auction-stand ! 
(Not but wut / hate Slavery in th' ab- 
stract, stem to starn, — 
I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit 

State consarn.) 
Soon 'z they see me, they yelled an* 

run, but Pomp wuz out ahoein' 
A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else 

there aint no knowin' 
He would n't ha' took a pop at me ; but 

I hed gut the start, 
An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned 

ez though he 'd broke his heart ; 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



He done it like a wite man, tu, ez natu- 
ral ez a pictur, 
The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite ! wus 

'an a boy constrictur. 
"You can't gum me, I tell ye now, an' 

so you need n't try, 
I 'xpect my eye-teeth every mail, so 

jest shet up," sez I. 
'"Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else 

I '11 jest let strip, 
You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how 

I 've gut ye on the hip ; 
Besides, you darned ole fool, it aint no 

gret of a disaster 
To be benev'lently druv back to a con- 
tented master, 
Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you 

don't seem quite aware of, 
Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' 

well took care of; 
Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so 

fond on ye, he said 
He 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git 

ye, 'live or dead ; 
Wite folks aint sot by half ez much ; 

'member I run away, 
Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to 

Mattysqumscot Bay; 
Don' know him, likely? Spose not; 

wal, the mean ole codger went 
An' offered — wut reward, think ? Wal, 

it worn't no less 'n a cent." 



Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an' druv 

'em on afore me, 
The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee o' the 

ill-will they bore me ; 
We walked till som'ers about noon, an' 

then it grew so hot 
I thought it best to camp awile, so I 

chose out a spot 
Jest under a magnoly tree, an* there 

right down I sot ; 
Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz 

it begun to chafe, 
An' laid it down 'long side o' me, sup- 

posin' all wuz safe ; 
I made my darkies all set down around 

me in a ring, 
An' sot an' kin' o 1 ciphered up how 

much the lot would bring ; 
But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of 

a pure heart an' mind 



(Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then), 
Pomp he snaked up behind, 

An' creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet 
ez a mink, 

Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled 
foot, quicker 'an you could wink, 

An', come to look, they each on 'em 
hed gut behin' a tree, 

An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, 
jest so ez I could see, 

An' yelled to me to throw away my pis- 
tils an' my gun, 

Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg, an' 
fairly cut an' run. 

I vow I did n't b'lieve there wuz a de- 
cent alligatur 

Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' com- 
mon human natur ; 

However, ez there worn't no help, I 
finally give in 

An' heft my arms away to git my leg 
safe back agin. 

Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' 
then he come an' grinned, 

He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' 
sez, " You 're fairly pinned ; 

Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git 
right up an' come, 

'T wun't du fer fammerly men like me to 
, be so long from hum." 

At fust I put my foot right down an' 
swore I would n't budge. 

"Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite 
cool, "either be shot or trudge." 

So this black-hearted monster took an' 
act'lly druv me back 

Along the very feetmarks o' my happy 
mornin' track, 

An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, 
an' worked me, tu, like sin, 

Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny 
taters in ; 

He made me larn him readin', tu (al- 
though the crittur saw 

How much it hut my morril sense to 
act agin the law), 

So'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut ; 
an' axed ef I could pint 

The North Star out ; but there I put 
his nose some oyt o' jint, 

Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', 
lookin' up a bit, 

Picked out a middlin' shiny one an- »olft 
him thet wuz \i- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', 

givin 1 me a kick, 
Sez, — " Ef you know wut 's best fer 

ye, be off, now, double-quick ; 
The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', 

though I gut ye cheap, 
You 're so darndti lazy, I don't think 

you 're hardly wuth your keep ; 
Besides, the childrin 's growin' up, an' 

you aint jest the model 
I 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so 

you 'd better toddle ! " 

Now is there anythin' on airth '11 ever 

prove to me 
Thet renegader slaves like him air fit 

fer bein' free ? 
A)' you think they '11 suck me in to jine 

the Buff 'lo chaps, an' them 
'Rank infidels thet go agin the Scrip- 

tur'l cus o' Shem? 
Not by a jugfull ! sooner 'n thet, I 'd 

go thru fire an' water ; 
Ven I hev once made up my mind, a 

meet'nhus aint sotter ; 
No, not though all the crows thet flies to 

pick my bones wuz cawin', — 
1 guess we 're in a Christian land, — 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 

[Here, patient reader, we take leave of 
each other, I trust with some mutual satis- 
faction. I say patient, for I love not that 
kind which skims dippingly over the surface 
of the page, as swallows over a pool before 
rain. By such no pearls shall be gathered. 
But if no pearls there be (as, indeed, the 
world is not without example of books where- 
from the longest-winded diver shall bring up 
no more than his proper handful of mud), yet 
• let us hope that an oyster or two may reward 
adequate perseverance. If neither pearls nor 
oysters, yet is patience itself a gem worth 
diving deeply for. 

It may seem to some that too much space 
has been usurped by my own private lucu- 
brations, and some may be fain to bring 
against me that old jest of him who preached 
all his hearers out of the meeting-house save 
only the sexton who, remaining for yet a little 
space, from a sense of official duty, at last 
gave out also, and, presenting the keys, 
humbly requested our preacher to lock the 
doors, when he should have wholly relieved 
himself of his testimony. I confess to a satis- 
faction in the self act of preaching, nor do I 
esteem a discourse to be wholly thrown away 
even upon a sleeping or unintelligent au- 
ditory. I cannot easily believe that the Gos- 



pel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier or- 
dered to be read in the Latin tongue to the 
Canadian savages, upon his first meeting with 
them, fell altogether upon stony ground. For 
the earnestness of the preacher is a sermon 
appreciable by dullest intellects and most 
alien ears. In this wise did Episcopius convert 
many to his opinions, who yet understood 
not the language in which he discoursed. 
The chief thing is that the messenger believe 
that he has an authentic message to de- 
liver. For counterfeit messengers that mode 
of treatment which Father John de Piano 
Carpini relates to have prevailed among the 
Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps, 
deserved enough. For my own part, I may 
lay claim to so much of the spirit of martyr- 
dom as would have led me to go into banish- 
ment with those clergymen whom Alphonso 
the Sixth of Portugal drave out of his king- 
dom for refusing to shorten their pulpit elo- 
quence. It is possible, that, having been in- 
vited into my brother Biglow's desk. I may 
have been too little scrupulous in using it for 
the venting of my own peculiar doctrines to a 
congregation drawn together in the expec- 
tation and with the desire of hearing hiin. 

I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiar- 
ity of mental organization which impels me, 
like the railroad-engine with its train of cars, 
to run backward for a short distance in or- 
der to obtain a fairer start. I may compare 
myself to one fishing from the rocks when the 
sea runs high, who, misinterpreting the suc- 
tion of the undertow for the biting of some 
larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that he 
has caught bottom, hauling in upon the end 
of his line a trail of various algce, among 
which, nevertheless, the naturalist may haply 
find somewhat to repay the disappointment 
of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously 
endeavored to adapt myself to the impatient 
temper of the age, daily degenerating more 
and more from the high standard of our 
pristine New England. To the catalogue of 
lost arts I would mournfully add also that of 
listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we 
have been abridged into a race of pygmies. 
For, truly, in those of the old discourses yet 
subsisting to us in print, the endless spinal 
column of divisions and subdivisions can be 
likened to nothing so exactly as to the ver- 
tebrae of the saurians, whence the theorist 
may conjecture a race of Anakim proportion- 
ate to the withstanding of these other mon- 
sters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, 
because there seem reasons for supposing 
that the race of those whose heads (though 
no giants) are constantly enveloped in clouds 
(which that name imports) will never become 
extinct. The attempt to vanquish the innu- 
merable heads of one of those aforemen- 
tioned discourses may supply us with a plausi- 
ble interpretation of the second labor of 
Hercules, and his successful experiment with 
fire affords us a useful precedent. 
But while I lament the degeneracy ef the 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



age in this regard, I cannot refuse to succumb 
to its influence. Looking out through my 
study-window, I see Mr. Biglow at a distance 
busy in gathering his Baldwins, of which, 
to judge by the number of barrels lying 
about under the trees, his crop is more abun- 



dant than my own, — by which sight I am 
admonished to turn to those orchards of the 
mind wherein my labors may be more pros- 
pered, and apply myself diligently to the 
preparation of my next Sabbath's discourse. 
- H. W.J 



MELIBCEUS-HIPPONAX. 



THE 

SECOND SERIES. 

*E<rTi.v ap* 6 tScwTtcr/xb? eviore rov k6<t{xov irapairoXv efx<J>avi<TTUca>T€pov. 

LONGINUS. 

" J'aimerois mieulx que mon fils apprinst aux tavernes a parler, qu'aux 
escholes de la parlerie." Montaigne. 

„ Unfer <&pvad) iff aucty etn (spracty unt> tan fo n>ot;l etn ©acf nennett ate 
Me iatiner saccus." Fischart. 

" Vim rebus aliquando ipsa verborum humilitas affert." 

QUINTILIANUS. 

" O ma lengo, 
Plantarey une estelo a toun froun encrumit ! " 

Jasmin. 



TO 
E. R. HOAR. 



15 



"Multos enim, quibus loquendi ratio non desit, invenias, quos curiose potius 
loqui dixeris quam Latine ; quomodo et ilia Attica anus Theophrastum, homi- 
nem alioqui disertissimum, annotata unius affectatione verbi, hospitem dixit, nee 
alio se id deprehendisse interrogata respondit, quam quod nimium Attice loquere- 
tur." 

QUINTILIANUS. 

" Et Anglice sermonicari solebat populo, sed secundum linguam Norfolchie ubi 
natus et nutritus erat." 

Cronica Jocelini. 

" La politique est une pierre attache'e au cou de la literature, et qui, en moins 
de six mois la submerge. .... Cette politique va offenser mortellement une 
mome - des lecteurs, et ennuyer l'autre qui l'a trouv^e bien autrement speciale et 
energique dans le journal du matin." 

Hbkri Beyle. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Though prefaces seem of late to 
have fallen under some reproach, they 
have at least this advantage, that they 
set us again on the feet of our personal 
consciousness and rescue us from the 
gregarious mock-modesty or cowardice 
of that we which shrills feebly through- 
out modern literature like the shrieking 
of mice in the walls of a house that has 
past its prime. Having a few words to 
say to the many friends whom the 
"Biglow Papers" have won me, I 
shall accordingly take the freedom of 
the first person singular of the personal 
pronoun. Let each of the good-natured 
unknown who have cheered me by the 
written communication of their sympa- 
thy look upon this Introduction as a 
private letter to himself. 

When, more than twenty years ago, 
I wrote the first of the series, I had no 
definite plan and no intention of ever 
writing another. Thinking the Mexi- 
can war, as T think it still, a national 
crime committed in behoof of Slavery, 
our common sin, and wishing to put the 
feeling of those who thought as I did 
in a way that would tell, I imagined to 
myself such an upcountry man as I had 
often seen at antislavery gatherings, 
capable of district-school English, but 
always instinctively falling back into 
the natural stronghold of his homely 
dialect when heated to the point of 
self-forgetfulness. When I began to 
carry out my conception and to write in 
my assumed character, I found myself 
in a strait between two perils. On the 
one hand, I was in danger of being car- 
ried beyond the limit of my own opin- 
ions, or at least of that temper with 
which every man should speak his mind 
in print, and on the other I feared the 
risk of seeming to vulgarize a deep and 



sacred conviction. I needed on occa- 
sion to rise above the level of mere 
patois^ and for this purpose conceived 
the Reverend Mr. Wilbur, who should 
express the more cautious element of 
the New England character and its 
pedantry, as Mr. Biglow should serve 
lor its homely common-sense vivified 
and heated by conscience. The parson 
was to be the complement rather than 
the antithesis of his parishioner, and I 
felt or fancied a certain humorous ele- 
ment in the real identity of the two un- 
der a seeming incongruity. Mr. Wil- 
bur's fondness for scraps of Latin, 
though drawn from the life, I adopted 
deliberately to heighten the contrast. 
Finding soon after that I needed some 
one as a mouthpiece of the mere drol- 
lery, for I conceive that true humor is 
never divorced from moral conviction, 
I invented Mr. Sawin for the clown of 
my little puppet-show. I meant to em- 
body in him that half-conscious un- 
morality which I had noticed as the 
recoil in gross natures from a puritan- 
ism that still strove to keep in its creed 
the intense savor which had long gone 
out of its faith and life. In the three 
I thought I should find room enough 
to express, as it was my plan to do, the 
popular feeling and opinion of the time. 
For the names of two of my characters, 
since I have received some remon- 
strances from very worthy persons who 
happened to bear them, I would say 
that they were purely fortuitous, proba- 
bly mere unconscious memories of sign- 
boards or directories. Mr. Sawin's 
sprang from the accident of a rhyme at 
the end of his first epistle, and I pur- 
posely christened him by the impossi- 
ble surname of Birdofredum not more 
to stigmatize him as the incarnation of 



228 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 



" Manifest Destiny," in other words, 
of national recklessness as to right and 
wrong, than to avoid the chance of 
wounding any private sensitiveness. 

The success of my experiment soon 
began not only to astonish me, but to 
make me feel the responsibility of 
knowing that I held in my hand a 
weapon instead of the mere fencing- 
stick I had supposed. Very far from 
being a popular author under my own 
name, so far, indeed, as to be almost 
unread, I found the verses of my pseu- 
donym copied everywhere ; I saw them 
pinned up in workshops ; I heard them 
quoted and their authorship debated ; 
1 once even, when rumor had at length 
caught up my name in one of its ed- 
dies, had the satisfaction of overhear- 
ing it demonstrated, in the pauses of a 
concert, that / was utterly incompetent 
to have written anything of the kind. 
I had read too much not to know the 
utter worthlessness of contemporary 
reputation, especially as regards satire, 
but I knew also that by giving a cer- 
tain amount of influence it also had its 
worth, if that influence were used on 
the right side. I had learned, too, that 
the first requisite of good writing is to 
have an earnest and definite purpose, 
whether aesthetic or moral, and that 
even good writing, to please long, must 
have more than an average amount 
either of imagination or common-sense. 
The first of these falls to the lot of 
scarcely one in several generations ; the 
last is within the reach of many in 
every one that passes; and of this an 
author may fairly hope to become in 
part the mouthpiece. If I put on the 
cap and bells and made myself one of 
the court-fools of King Demos, it was 
less to make his majesty laugh than to 
win a passage to his royal ears for cer- 
tain serious things which I had deeply 
at heart. I say this because there is no 
imputation that could be more galling 
to any man's self-respect than that of 
being a mere jester. I endeavored, by 
generalizing my satire, to give it what 
value I could beyond the passing mo- 
ment and the immediate application. 
How far I have succeeded I cannot 



tell, but I have had better luck than 1 
ever looked for in seeing my verses 
survive to pass beyond their nonage 

In choosing the Yankee dialect, 1 did 
not act without forethought. It had 
long seemed to me that the great vice 
of American writing and speaking was 
a studied want of simplicity, that we 
were in danger of coming to look on 
our mother-tongue as a dead language, 
to be sought in the grammar and dic- 
tionary rather than in the heart, and 
that our only chance of escape was by 
seeking it at its living sources among 
those who were, as Scottowe says of 
Major-General Gibbons, "divinely il- 
literate." President Lincoln, the only 
really great public man whom these 
latter days have seen, was great also in 
this, that he was master — witness his 
speech at Gettysburg — of a truly mas- 
culine English, classic because it was 
of no special period; and level at once 
to the highest and lowest of his country- 
men. But whoever should read the 
debates in Congress might fancy him- 
self present at a meeting of the city 
council of some city of Southern Gaul 
in the decline of the Empire, where 
barbarians with a Latin varnish emu- 
lated each other in being more than 
Ciceronian. Whether it be want of 
culture, for the highest outcome of that 
is simplicity, or for wl atever reason, it 
is certain that very few American writers 
or speakers wield their native language 
with the directness, precision, and 
force that are common as the day in the 
mother country. We use it like Scots- 
men, not as if it belonged to us, but as 
if we wished to prove that we belong to 
it, by showing our intimacy with its writ- 
ten rather than with its spoken dialect. 
And yet all the while our popular idiom 
is racy with life and vigor and originali- 
ty, bucksome (as Milton used the word) 
to our new occasions, and proves itself 
no mere graft by sending up new suck- 
ers from the old root in spite of us. 
It is only from its roots in the living 
generations of men that a language can 
be reinforced with fresh vigor for its 
needs ; what may be called a literate 
dialect grows ever more and more pe- 



INTRODUCTION. 



229 



dantic and foreign, till it becomes at 
last as unfitting a vehicle for living 
thought as monkish Latin. That we 
should all be made to talk like books is 
the danger with which we are threatened 
by the Universal Schoolmaster, who 
does his best to enslave the minds and 
memories of his victims to what he 
esteems the best models of English 
composition, that is to say, to the 
writers whose style is faultily correct 
and has no blood-warmth in it. No 
language after it has faded into diction, 
none that cannot suck up the feeding 
juices secreted for it in the rich mother- 
earth of common folk, can bring forth 
a sound and lusty book. True vigor 
and heartiness of phrase do not pass 
from page to page, but from man to 
man, where the brain is kindled and 
the lips suppled by downright living 
interests and by passion in its very 
throe. Language is the soil of thought, 
and our own especially is a rich leaf- 
mould, the slow deposit of ages, the 
shed foliage of feeling, fancy, and im- 
agination, which has suffered an earth- 



change, that the vocal forest, as Howell 
called it, may clothe itself anew with 
living green. There is death in the 
dictionary ; and, where language is too 
strictly limited by convention, the 
ground for expression to grow in is 
limited also ; and we get a potted lit- 
erature, Chinese dwarfs instead of 
healthy trees. 

But while the schoolmaster has been 
busystarching our language and smooth- 
ing it flat with the mangle of a supposed 
classical authority, the newspaper re- 
porter has been doing even more harm 
by stretching and swelling it to suit his 
occasions. A dozen years ago I began 
a list, which I have added to from time 
to time, of some of the changes which 
may be fairly laid at his door. I give 
a few of them as showing their tenden- 
cy, all the more dangerous that their 
effect, like that of some poisons, is in- 
sensibly cumulative, and that they are 
sure at last of effect among a people 
whose chief reading is the daily paper. 
I give in two columns the old style and 
its modern equivalent. 



Old Style. 
Was hanged. 
When the halter was put round his neck. 



A great crowd came to see. 
Great fire. 
The fire spread. 

House burned. 

The fire was got under. 

Man fell. 

A horse and wagon ran against. 

The frightened horse. 
Sent for the doctor. 

The mayor of the city in a short speech 
welcomed. 



I shall say a few words. 

Began his answer. 
A bystander advised. 



New Style. 

Was launched into eternity. 

When the fatal noose was adjusted about the 
neck of the unfortunate victim of his own 
unbridled passions. 

A vast concourse was assembled to witness. 

Disastrous conflagration. 

The conflagration extended its devastating 
career. 

Edifice consumed. 

The progress of the devouring element was 
arrested. 

Individual was precipitated. 

A valuable horse attached to a vehicle driven 
by J. S., in the employment of J. B., col- 
lided with. 

The infuriated animal. 

Called into requisition the services of the 
family physician. 

The chief magistrate of the metropolis, in 
well-chosen and eloquent language, fre- 
quently interrupted by the plaudits of the 
surging multitude, officially tendered the 
hospitalities. 

I shall, with your permission, beg leave to 
offer some brief observations. 

Commenced his rejoinder. 

One of those omnipresent characters who, 
as if in pursuance of some previous ar- 
rangement, are certain to be encountered 
in the vicinity when an accident occurs, 
ventured the suggestion. 



33° 

He died 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



He deceased, he passed out of existence, 
his spirit quitted its earthly habitation, 
winged its way to eternity, shook ott its 
burden, &c. 



In one sense this is nothing new. 
The school of Pope in verse ended by 
wire-drawing its phrase to such thin- 
ness that it could bear no weight of 
meaning whatever. Nor is fine writ- 
ing by any means confined to America. 
All writers without imagination fall 
into it of necessity whenever they at- 
tempt the figurative. 1 take two ex- 
amples from Mr. Merivale's " History 
of the Romans under the Empire," 
which, indeed, is full of such. *' The 
last years of the age familiarly styled 
the Augustan were singularly barren of 
the literary glories from which its celeb- 
rity was chiefly derived. One by one 
the stars in its firmament had been lost 
to the world ; Virgil and Horace, &c, 
had long since died ; the charm which 
the imagination of Livy had thrown 
over the earlier annals of Rome had 
ceased to shine on the details of almost 
contemporary history ; and if the flood 
of his eloquence still continued flow- 
ing, we can hardly suppose that the 
stream was as rapid, as fresh, and as 
clear as ever." I will not waste time 
in criticising the bad English or the 
mixture of metaphor in these sentences, 
but will simply cite another from the 
same author which is even worse. 
" The shadowy phantom of the Repub- 
lic continued to flit before the eyes of 
the Csesar. There was still, he appre- 
hended, a germ of sentiment existing, 
on which a scion of his own house, or 
even a stranger, might boldly throw 
himself and raise the standard of patri- 
cian independence." Now a ghost 
may haunt a murderer, but hardly, I 
should think, to scare him with the 
threat of taking a new lease of its old 
tenement. And fancy the scion of a 
house in the act of throwing itself 
upon a germ of sentiment to raise a 
standard! I am glad, since we have 
so much in the same kind to answer 
for, that this bit of horticultural rhetoric 
is from beyond sea. I would not be 



supposed to condemn truly imaginative 
prose. There is a simplicity of splen- 
dor, no less than of plainness, and prose 
would be poor indeed if it could not 
find a tongue for that meaning of the 
mind which is behind the meaning of 
the words. It has sometimes seemed 
to me that in England there was a 
growing tendency to curtail language 
into a mere convenience, and to defe- 
cate it of all emotion as thoroughly 
as algebraic signs. This has arisen, no 
doubt, in part from that healthy national 
contempt of humbug which is charac- 
teristic of Englishmen, in part from 
that sensitiveness to the ludicrous which 
makes them so shy of expressing feel- 
ing, but in part also, it is to be feared, 
from a growing distrust, one might al- 
most say hatred, of whatever is super- 
material. There is something sad in 
the scorn with which their journalists 
treat the notion of their being such a 
thing as a national* ideal, seeming ut- 
terly to have forgotten that even in the 
affairs of this world the imagination is 
as much matter-of-fact as the under- 
standing. If we were to trust the im- 
pression made on us by some of the 
cleverest and most characteristic of 
their periodical literature, we should 
think England hopelessly stranded on 
the good-humored cynicism of well-to- 
do middle-age, and should fancy it an 
enchanted nation, doomed to sit forever 
with its feet under the mahogany in that 
after-dinner mood which follows con- 
scientious repletion, and which it is ill- 
manners to disturb with any topics 
more exciting than the quality of the 
wines. But there are already symp- 
toms that a large class of Englishmen 
are getting weary of the dominion of 
consols and divine common-sense, and 
to believe that eternal three percentis 
not the chief end of man, nor the high- 
est and only kind of interest to which 
the powers and opportunities of Eng- 
land are entitled. 



INTRODUCTION. 



33* 



The quality of exaggeration has often 
been remarked on as typical of Ameri- 
can character, and especially of Ameri- 
can humor. In Dr. Petri's Gedriingtes 
Hci7idbuck der Fremdw'orter, we are 
told that the word humbug is common- 
ly used for the exaggerations of the 
North-Americans. To be sure, one 
would be tempted to think the dream 
of Columbus half fulfilled, and that 
Europe had found in the West a nearer 
way to Orientalism, at least in diction. 
But it seems to me that a great deal of 
what is set down as mere extravagance 
is more fitly to be called intensity and 
picturesqueness, symptoms of the im- 
aginative faculty in full health and 
strength, though producing, as yet, 
only the raw and formless material in 
which poetry is to work. By and by, 
perhaps, the world will see it fashioned 
into poem and picture, and Europe, 
which will be hard pushed for original- 
ity erelong, may have to thank us for a 
new sensation. The French continue 
to find Shakespeare exaggerated be- 
cause he treated English just as our 
country-folk do when they speak of a 
" steep price," or say that they " freeze 
to " a thing. The first postulate of an 
original literature is that a people 
should use their language instinctively 
and unconsciously, as if it were a lively 
part of their growth and personality, 
not as the mere torpid boon of educa- 
tion or inheritance. Even Burns con- 
trived to write very poor verse and 
prose in English. Vulgarisms are often 
only poetry in the egg. The late Mr. 
Horace Mann, in one- of his public 
addresses, commented at some length 
on the beauty and moral significance 
of the French phrase s y orienter, and 
called on his young friends to practise 
upon it in life. There was not a Yan- 
kee in his audience whose problem had 
not always been to find out what was 
about east, and to shape his course ac- 
cordingly. This charm which a famil- 
iar expression gains by being comment- 
ed, as it were, and set in a new light 
by a foreign language, is curious and 
instructive. I cannot help thinking 
that Mr. Matthew Arnold forgets this 



a little too much sometimes when 
he writes of the beauties of French 
style. It would not be hard to find in 
the works of French Academicians 
phrases as coarse as those he cites from 
Burke, only they are veiled by the un- 
familiarity of the language. But, how- 
ever this may be, it is certain that poets 
and peasants please us in the same way 
by translating words back again to their 
primal freshness, and infusing them 
with a delightful strangeness which is 
anything but alienation. What, for 
example, is Milton's " edge of battle " 
but a doing into English of the Latin 
acies ? Was die Gans gedacht das der 
Schwan vollbracht, what the goose but 
thought, that the swan full brought (or, 
to de-Saxonize it a little, what the goose 
conceived, that the swan achieved), and 
it may well be that the life, invention, 
and vigor shown by our popular speech, 
and the freedom with which it is shaped 
to the instant want of those who use it, 
are of the best omen for our having a 
swan at last. The part I have taken 
on myself is that of the humbler bird. 
But it is affirmed that there is some- 
thing innately vulgar in the Yankee 
dialect. M. Sainte-Beuve says, with 
his usual neatness : " Je difinis un. 
patois une ancienne langue qui a eu 
des malheurs, ou encore une langue 
toute jeune et qtd n'a pas fait for- 
tune." The first part of his definition 
applies to a dialect like the Provencal, 
the last to the Tuscan before Dante 
had lifted it into a classic, and neither, 
it seems to me, will quite fit a patois, 
which is not properly a dialect, but 
rather certain archaisms, proverbial 
phrases, and modes of pronunciation, 
which maintain themselves among the 
uneducated side by side with the finished 
and universally accepted language. 
Norman French, for example, or Scotch 
down to the time of James VI., could 
hardly be called patois, while I should 
be half inclined to name the Yankee a 
lingo rather than a dialect. It has re- 
tained a few words now fallen into dis- 
use in the mother country, like to tarry, 
to progress, fleshy, fall, and some 
others ; it has changed the meaning of 



232 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



some, as in freshet ; and it has clung 
to what 1 suspect to have been the 
broad Norman pronunciation of e ( which 
Moliere puts into the mouth of his 
rustics) in such words as sarvant, par- 
feet, vartoo, and the like. It main- 
tains something of the French sound of 
a also in words like chamber, danger 
(though the latter had certainly begun 
to take its present sound so early as 
1636, when I find it sometimes spelt 
dainger). But in general it may be 
said that nothing can be found in it 
which does not still survive in some 
one or other of the English provincial 
dialects. I am not speaking now of 
Americanisms properly so called, that 
is, of words or phrases which have 
grown into use here either through 
necessity, invention, or accident, such 
as a carry, a one-horse affair, a 
Prairie, to vamose. Even these are 
fewer than is sometimes taken for 
granted. But I think some fair defence 
may be made against the charge of 
vulgarity. Properly speaking, vul- 
garity is in the thought, and not 
in the word or the way of pro- 
nouncing it. Modern French, the 
most polite of languages, is barbar- 
ously vulgar if compared with the 
Latin out of which it has been cor- 
rupted, or even with Italian. There is 
a wider gap, and one implying greater 
boorishness, between ministerium and 
metier, or sapiens and sachant, than 
between druv and drove or agin and 
against, which last is plainly an arrant 
superlative. Our rustic coverlid is 
nearer its French original than the 
diminutive coverlet, into which it has 
been ignorantly corrupted in politer 
speech. I obtained from three culti- 
vated Englishmen at different times 
three diverse pronunciations of a single 
word, — cowcumber, coocumber, and 
cucumber. Of these the first, which is 
Yankee also, comes nearest to the 
nasality of concombre. Lord Ossory 
assures us that Voltaire saw the best 
society in England, and Voltaire tells 
his countrymen that handkerchief was 
pronounced hankercher. I find it so 
spelt in Hakluyt and elsewhere. This 



enormity the Yankee still persists in, 
and as there is always a reason for such 
deviations from the sound as represent- 
ed by the spelling, may we not suspect 
two sources of derivation, and find an 
ancestor for kercher in couverture 
rather than in couvrechej '? And what 
greater phonetic vagary (which Dry- 
den, by the way, called fegary) in our 
lingua rustica than this ker for couvre ? 
I copy from the fly-leaves of my books 
where 1 have noted them from time to 
time a few examples of pronunciation 
and phrase which will show that the 
Yankee often has antiquity and very 
respectable literary authority on his 
side. My list might be largely in- 
creased by referring to glossaries, but 
to them every one can go for himself, 
and I have gathered enough for my 
purpose. 

I will take first those cases in which 
something like the French sound has 
been preserved in certain single letters 
and diphthongs. And this opens a 
curious question as to how long this 
Gallicism maintained itself in England. 
Sometimes a divergence in pronuncia- 
tion has given us two words with dif- 
ferent meanings, as in genteel and 
jaunty, which I find coming in toward 
the close of the seventeenth century, 
and wavering between genteel and jan* 
tee. It is usual in America to drop the 
u in words ending in our* — a very 
proper change recommended by Howell 
two centuries ago, and carried out by 
him so far as his printers would allow. 
This and the corresponding changes in 
musique, musick, and the like, which 
he also advocated, show that in hiu 
time the French accent indicated by 
the superfluous letters (for French had 
once nearly as strong an accent as 
Italian) had gone out of use. There is 
plenty of French accent down to the 
end of Elizabeth's reign. In Daniel we 
have riches' and counsel 1 ', in Bishop 
Hall comet 1 , chapelain, in Donne pic- 
tures' , virtue', presence', mortal' y 
■merit', hainoiis' , giant', with many 
more, and Marston's satires are full of 
them. The two latter, however, are not 
to be relied on, as they may be suspected 



INTRODUCTION. 



233 



of Chaucerizing. Herrick writes bap- 
time. The tendency to throw the accent 
backward began early. But the incon- 
gruities are perplexing, and perhaps 
mark the period of transition. In War- 
ner's " Albion's England" we have cre- 
ator 1 and creature* side by side with the 
modern creator and creature. E'nvy 
and ehivying occur in Campion (1602), 
and yet envy 1 survived Alilton. In 
some cases we have gone back again 
nearer to the French, as in rev'enue for 
revenue. I had been so used to hear- 
ing imbecile pronounced with the ac- 
cent on the first syllable, which is in 
accordance with the general tendency, 
in such matters, that I was surprised to 
find imbec'ile in a verse of Words- 
worth. The dictionaries all give it so. 
I asked a highly cultivated English- 
man, and he declared for imbeceeP . In 
general it may be assumed that ac- 
cent will finally settle on the syllable 
dictated by greater ease and therefore 
quickness of utterance. Bias' phemotis, 
for example, is more rapidly pronounced 
than blaspkem' ous, to which our Yan- 
kee clings, following in this the usas:e 
of many of the older poets. A merH- 
can is easier than American, and 
therefore the false quantity has carried 
the day, though the true one may be 
found in George Herbert, and even so 
late as Cowley. 

To come back to the matter in hand. 
Our * 4 uplandish man" retains the soft 
or thin sound of the tc in some words, 
such as rule, truth (sometimes also 
pronounced truth, not trootk), while he 
says two for new, and gives to view and 
few so indescribable a mixture of the 
two sounds with a slight nasal tincture 
that it may be called the Yankee shib- 
boleth. In rule the least sound of a 
precedes the u. I find reule in Pe- 
cock's "Repressor." He probably 
pronounced it rayoote, as the old 
French word from which it is derived 
was very likely to be sounded at first, 
with a reminiscence of its original re- 
gula. Tindal has rtieler, and the Co- 
ventry Plays have preudent. As for 
noo, may it not claim some sanction in 
its derivation, whether from notweau 



or neufy the ancient sound of which 
may very well have been noofi as nearer 
novus ? Beef would seem more like 
to have come from buffe than from 
bceuf, unless the two were mere varie- 
ties of spelling. The Saxon few may 
have caught enough from its French 
cousin pen to claim the benefit of the 
same doubt as to sound ; and our slang 
phrase a few (as " I licked him a few") 
may well appeal to un pete for sense and 
authority. Nay, might not lick itself 
turn out to be the good old word lam 
in an English disguise, if the latter 
should claim descent as, perhaps, he 
fairly might, from the Latin lambere ? 
The New England ferce for fierce, and 
perce for pierce (sometimes heard as 
fairce and pairce), are also Norman. 
For Jts antiquity I cite the rhyme of 
verse^and pierce in Chapman and 
Donne, and in some commendatory 
verses by a Mr. Berkenhead before the 
poems of Francis Beaumont. Our 
pairlous for perilous is of the same 
kind, and is nearer Shakespeare's par- 
lous than the modern pronunciation. 
One other Gallicism survives in our 
pronunciation. Perhaps I should 
rather call it a semi-Gallicism, for it is 
the result of a futile effort to reproduce 
a French sound with English lips. 
Thus for joint, employ, royal we have 
j'ynt, emply, ryle, the last differing only 
from rile (roil) in a prolongation of the 
y sound. In Walter de Biblesworth I 
find solives Englished by gistes. This, 
it is true, may have been pronounced 
jeests, but the pronunciation jystes 
must have preceded the present spell- 
ing, which was no doubt adopted after 
the radical meaning was forgotten, as 
analogical with other words in oi. In 
the same way after Norman-French in- 
fluence had softened the / out of would 
(we alreadv find woud for veut in N. F. 
poems), should followed the example, 
and then an / was put into could, where 
it does not belong, to satisfy the logic of 
the eye, which has affected the pronun- 
ciation and even the spelling of English 
more than is commonly supposed. I 
meet with eyster for oyster as early as 
the fourteenth century. I find dystrye 



234 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



for destroy in the Coventry Plays, viage 
in Bishop Hall and Middleton the dra- 
matist, bile in Donne and Chrononho- 
tonthologos, line in Hall, ryall and 
chyse (for choice) in the Coventry Plays. 
In Chapman's "All Fools" is the mis- 
print of employ for imply, fairly infer- 
ring an identity of sound in the last syl- 
lable. Indeed, this pronunciation was 
habitual till after Pope, and Rogers tells 
us that the elegant Gray said naise for 
noise just as our rustics still do. Our 
cornish (which I find also in Herrick) 
remembers the French better than cor- 
nice does. While, clinging more closely 
to the Anglo- Saxon in dropping the g 
from the end of the present participle, 
the Yankee now and then pleases him- 
self with an experiment in French na- 
sality in words ending in n. It is not, 
so far as my experience goes, very com- 
mon, though it may formerly have been 
more so. Capting, for instance, I 
never heard save in jest, the habitual 
form being kepp'n. But at any rate it 
is no invention of ours. In that de- 
lightful old volume, "Ane Compendi- 
ous Buke of Godly and Spirituall 
Songs," in which I know not whether 
the piety itself or the simplicity of its 
expression be more charming, I find 
bnrding, garding, and cousing, and in 
the State Trials uncerting used by a 
gentleman. The n for ng I confess 
preferring. 

Of Yankee preterites I find risse and 
rize for rose in Middleton and Dryden, 
clzm in Spenser, chees {chose) in Sir 
John Mandevil, give {gave) in the 
Coventry Plays, shet {shut) in Gold- 
ing's Ovid,* het in Chapman and in 
Weever's Epitaphs, thriv and smit in 
Drayton, quit in Ben Jonson and 
Henry More, and pled in the fastidious 
Landor. Rid for rode was anciently 
common. So likewise was see for saw, 
but I find it in no writer of authority, 
unless Chaucer's seie was so sounded. 
Shew is used by Hector Boece, Giles 
Fletcher, and Drummond of Haw- 
thornden. Similar strong preterites, 
like sneWy thew, and even mezv, are 

* Cited in Wartons Obs. Faery Q. 



not without example. I find sew for 
sowed in Piers Ploughman. Indeed, 
the anomalies in English preterites are 
perplexing. We have probably trans- 
ferred flew from flow (as the preterite 
of which I have heard it) to fly be- 
cause we had another preterite in fled. 
Of weak preterites the Yankee retains 
growed, blowed, for which he has good 
authority, and less often km wed. His 
sot is merely a broad sounding of sat, 
no more inelegant than the common 
got for gat, which he further degrades 
into gut. When he says darst, he 
uses a form as old as Chaucer. 

The Yankee has retained something 
of the long sound of the a in such 
words as axe, wax, pronouncing them 
exe, wex (shortened from aix, waix). 
He also says hev and hed {have, had) 
for have and had. In most cases he 
follows an Anglo-Saxon usage. In aix 
for axle he certainly does. I find wex 
and aisches {ashes) in Pecock, and exe 
in the Paston Letters. Chaucer wrote 
hendy. Dryden rhymes can with men, 
as Mr. Biglow would. Alexander Gill, 
Milton's teacher, in his "Logonomia " 
cites hez for hath as peculiar to Lin- 
colnshire. I find hayth in Collier's 
" Bibliographical Account of Early 
English Literature " under the date 
1584, and Lord Cromwell so wrote it. 
Sir Christopher Wren wrote belcony. 
Our feet is only the O. Y./aict. 'Ihaim 
for them was common in the sixteenth 
century. We have an example of the 
same thing in the double form of the 
verb thra-h, thresh. While the New- 
Englander cannot be brought to say 
instead for iustid (commonly 'slid 
where not the last word in a sentence), 
he changes the i into e in red for rid, 
tell for till, hender for hinder, rense for 
rinse. I find red in the old interlude 
of "Thersytes," tell in a letter of Da- 
bome to Henslowe, and also, I shudder 
to mention it, in a letter of the great 
Duchess of Marlborough, Atossa her- 
self ! It occurs twice in a single verse 
of the Chester Plays, which I copy as 
containing another Yankeeism : — 

" Tell the day of dome, tell the beanies 
blow." 



INTRODUCTION, 



*35 



From this word blow is formed blowth, 
which I heard again this summer after 
a long interval. Mr. Wright* explains 
it as meaning " a blossom." With us 
a single blossom is a blow, while blowtk 
means the blossoming in general. A 
farmer would say that there was a good 
blowth on his fruit-trees. The word re- 
treats farther inland and away from the 
railways, year by year. Wither rhymes 
hinder with sleiider, and Shakespeare 
and Lovelace have renched for ri?ised. 
In " Gammer Gurton " is sence for 
since ; Marlborough's Duchess so 
writes it, and Donne rhymes st7ice with 
Amiens and patience, Bishop Hall 
and Otway with pretence, Chapman 
with citizens, Dryden wi th providence. 
Indeed, why should not sithence take 
that form? Dryden's wife (an earl's 
daughter) has tell for till, Margaret, 
mother of Henry VII., writes seche for 
such, and our ef finds authority in the 
old form yeffe. 

E sometimes takes the place of u, as 
jedge, tredge, bresh. I find tredge in 
the interlude of "Jack Jugler," bresh 
in a citation by Collier from " London 
Cries " of the middle of the seven- 
teenth century, and resche for rush 
(fifteenth century) in the very valuable 
"Volume of Vocabularies" edited by 
Mr. Wright. Resce is one of the 
Anglo-Saxon forms of the word in 
Bosworth's A. S. Dictionary. The 
Yankee always shortens the u in the 
ending ture, making ventur, natnr, pic- 
tur, and so on. This was common, 
also, among the educated of the last 
generation. I am inclined to think it 
may have been once universal, and I 
certainly think it more elegant than the 
vile vencher, naycher, pickcher, that 
have taken its place, sounding like the 
invention of a lexicographer with his 
mouth full of hot pudding. Nash in 
his " Pierce Penniless " has ventur, 
and so spells it, and I meet it also in 
Spenser, Drayton, Ben Jonson, Her- 
rick, and Prior. Spenser has torfrest, 
which can be contracted only from 

* Dictionary of Obsolete and Provincial 
English. 



tortur and not from torcJter. Quarles 
rhymes nature with creator, and Dry- 
den with satire, which he doubtless 
pronounced according to its older form 
of satyr. Quarles has also torture and 
■mortar. Mary Boleyn writes kreatur. 
I. shall now give some examples 
which cannot so easily be ranked under 
any special head. - Gill charges the 
Eastern counties with kiver for cover, 
and ta for to. The Yankee pronounces 
both too and to like ta (like the tou in 
to7ich) where they are not emphatic. 
When they are, both become tu. In old 
spelling, to is the common (and indeed 
correct) form of too, which is only to 
with the sense of in addition. I sus- 
pect that the sound of our too has 
caught something from the French tout, 
and it is possible that the old too-too is 
not a reduplication, but a reminiscence 
of the feminine form of the same word 
(toute) as anciently pronounced, with 
the e not yet silenced. Gill gives a 
Northern origin to geaun for gown and 
waund for wound (vulnus). Lovelace 
has waund, but there is something too 
dreadful in suspecting Spenser (who 
borealized in his pastorals) of having 
ever been guilty of geami I And yet 
some delicate mouths even now are 
careful to observe the Hibernicism of 
ge-ard for guard, and ge-url for girl. 
Sir Philip Sidney (credite fiosteri !) 
wrote furr for far. I would hardly 
have believed it had I not seen it in 
fac-siinile. As some consolation, I 
find furder in Lord Bacon and Donne, 
and Wither rhymes far with cur. The 
Yankee, who omits the final d in many 
words, as do the Scotch, makes up for 
it by adding one in geound. The pu- 
rist does not feel the loss of the d sen- 
sibly in lawn and yon, from the former 
of which it has dropped again after a 
wrongful adoption (retained in laun- 
dry), while it properly belongs to the 
latter. But what shall we make of git, 
yit, and yis ? I find yis and git in 
Warner's "Albion's England," yet 
rhyming with wit, ad7nit, and ft in 
Donne, with wit in the " Revenger's 
Tragedy," Beaumont, and Suckling, 
with writ in Dryden, and latest of all 



236 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



with wit in Sir Hanbury Williams. 
Prior rhymes fitting and begetting. 
Worse is to come. Among others, 
Donne rhymes again with sin, and 
Quarles repeatedly with in. Ben for 
been, of which our dear Whittier is so 
fond, has the authority of Sackville, 
41 Gammer Gurton" (the work of a 
bishop), Chapman, Dryden, and many 
more, though bin seems to have been 
the common form. Whittier's accent- 
ing the first syllable of rom' ance finds 
an accomplice in Drayton among oth- 
ers, and though manifestly wrong, is 
analogous with Rom'ans. Of other 
Yankeeisms, whether of form or pro- 
nunciation, which I have met with I 
add a few at random. Pecock writes 
soivdiers {sogers, soudoyers), and 
Chapman and Gill sodder. This ab- 
sorption of the / is common in various 
dialects, especially in the Scottish. Pe- 
cock writes also biyende, and the au- 
thors of "Jack Jugler" and "Gammer 
Gurton" yender. The Yankee in- 
cludes "yon" in the same category, 
and says "hither an' yen," for "to and 
fro." (Cf. German jeuseits.) Pecock 
and plenty more have ivrastle. Tindal 
has agynste, gretter, s/iett, oudnnr, 
debyfe, and scace. "Jack Jugler" has 
scacely (which I have often heard, 
though skurce is the common form), 
and Donne and Dryden make great 
rhyme with set. In the inscription on 
Caxton's tomb I find ynd for end, 
which the Yankee more often makes 
eend, still using familiarly the old 
phrase "right anend" for "continu- 
ously." His "stret (straight) along" 
in the same sense, which I thought pe- 
culiar to him, I find in Pecock. Tin- 
dal's debyt'e for deputy is so perfectly 
Yankee that I could almost fancy the 
brave martyr to have been deacon of 
the First Parish at Jaalam Centre. 
"Jack Jugler" further gives us play- 
sent and sartayne. Dryden rhymes 
certain with parting, and Chapman 
and Ben Jonson use certain, as the 
Yankee always does, for certainly. 
The- " Coventry Mysteries" have occa- 
pied, massage, nateralle, materal{ma- 
Urial\ and meracles, — all excellent 



Yankeeisms. In the "Quatre ftls," 
Aymon (1504),* is vertus lor virtuous. 
Thomas Fuller called volume vollum, 
I suspect, for he spells it volumne. 
However, per co?itra, Yankees habitu- 
ally say colume for column. Indeed, 
to prove that our ancestors brought 
their pronunciation with them from the 
Old Country, and have not wantonly 
debased their mother tongue, 1 need 
only to cite the words scriptur, Israll, 
alkists, and cherfulncss from Gover- 
nor Bradford's "History." Brampton 
Gurdon writes shet in a letter to Win- 
throp. So the good man wrote them, 
and so the good descendants of his fel- 
low-exiles still pronounce them. Pur- 
tend {pretend) has crept like a serpent 
into the "Paradise of Dainty De- 
vices" ; purvide, which is not so bad, is 
in Chaucer. These, of course, are uni- 
versal vulgarisms, and not peculiar to 
the Yankee. Butler has a Yankee 
phrase, and pronunciation too, in, " To 
which these carr'ings-on did tend." 
Langham or Laneham, who wrote an 
account of the festivities at Kenilworth 
in honor of Queen Bess, and who evi- 
dently tried to spell phonetically, makes 
sorrows into sororz. Herrick writes 
hollow for halloo, and perhaps pro- 
nounced it (horresco suggerens I) holla, 
as Yankees do. Why not, when it 
comes from hola ? I find Jfelaschyppe 
(fellowship) in the Coventry Plays.' 
Spenser and his queen neither of them 
scrupled to write afore, and the former 
feels no inelegance even in chaw and 
idee. 'Pore was common till after Her- 
rick. Dryden has do's for does, and his 
wife spells worse wosce. A/eared was 
once universal. Warner has ery for 
ever a ; nay, he also has illy', with 
which we were once ignorantly re- 
proached by persons more familiar with 
Murray's Grammar than with English 
literature. And why not illy ? Mr. 
Bartlett says it is " a word used by writ- 
ers of an inferior class, who do not 
seem to perceive that ill is itself an ad- 
verb, without the termination ly" and 

* Cited in Collier. (I give my authority 
where I do not quote from the original book.) 






INTRODUCTION. 



237 



quotes Dr. Messer, President of Brown 
University, as asking triumphantly, 
44 Why don't you say welly ? " I 
should like to have had Dr. Messer an- 
swer his own question. It would be 
truer to say that it was used by people 
who still remembered that ill was an 
adjective, the shortened form of evil, 
out of which Shakespeare ventured to 
make evilly. The objection to illy is 
not an etymological one, but simply 
that it is contrary to good usage, — a 
very sufficient reason. /// as an adverb 
was at first a vulgarism, precisely like the 
rustic's when he says, "I was treated 
bad" May not the reason of this ex- 
ceptional form be looked for in that 
tendency to dodge what is hard to pro- 
nounce, to which I have already allud- 
ed? If the letters were distinctly ut- 
tered, as they should be, it would take 
too much time to say ill-ly, well-ly, and 
it is to be observed that we have 
avoided smelly* and tally in the same 
way, though we add ish to them with- 
out hesitation in smallish and tallish. 
We have, to be sure, dully and fully, 
but for the one we prefer stupidly, and 
the other (though this may have come 
from eliding the y before as) is giving 
way to full. The uneducated, whose 
utterance is slower, still make adverbs 
when they will by adding like to all 
manner of adjectives. We have had 
big- charged upon us, because we use it 
where an Englishman would now use 
great. I fully admit that it were bet- 
ter to distinguish between them, allow- 
ing to big a certain contemptuous qual- 
ity ; but as for authority, I want none 
better than that of Jeremy Taylor, 
who, in his noble sermon " On the 
Return of Prayer," speaks of "Je- 
sus, whose spirit was meek and gen- 
tle up to the greatness of the biggest 
example." As for our double nega- 
tive, I shall waste no time in quoting 
instances of it, because it was once as 
universal in English as it still is in 
the neo- Latin languages, where it does 
not strike us as vulgar. I am not sure 

* The word occurs in a letter of Mary Bo- 
leyn. 



that the loss of it is not to be regretted, 
But surely I shall admit the vulgarity 
of slurring or altogether eliding certain 
terminal consonants? I admit that a 
clear and sharp-cut enunciation is one 
of the crowning charms and elegancies 
of speech. Words so uttered are like 
coins fresh from the mint, compared 
with the worn and dingy drudges of 
long service, — I do not mean Ameri- 
can coins, for those look less badly the 
more they lose of their original ugli- 
ness. No one is more painfully con- 
scious than I of the contrast between 
the rifle-crack of an Englishman's yes 
and no, and the wet-fuse drawl of the 
same monosyllables in the mouths of 
my countrymen. But I do not find the 
dropping of final consonants disagreea- 
ble in Allan Ramsay or Burns, nor do 
I believe that our literary ancestors 
were sensible of that inelegance in the 
fusing them together of which we are 
conscious. How many educated men 
pronounce the t in chestnut ? how 
many say pentise for penthouse, as 
they should ? When a Yankee skipper 
says that he is " boun' "for Gloster " 
(not Gloucester, with the leave of the 
Universal Schoolmaster), he but speaks 
like Chaucer or an old ballad-singer, 
though they would have pronounced it 
boon. This is one of the cases where 
the d is surreptitious, and has been 
added in compliment to the verb bind, 
with which it has nothing to do. If we 
consider the root of the word (though 
of course I grant that every race has a 
right to do what it will with what is so 
peculiarly its own as its speech), the d 
has no more right there than at the end 
of gone, where it is often put by chil- 
dren, who are our best guides to the 
sources of linguistic corruption, and 
the best teachers of its processes. 
Cromwell,^ minister of Henry VIII., 
writes worle for world. Chapman has 
wati for wand, and lawn has rightful- 
ly displaced laund, though with no 
thought, I suspect, of etymology. 
Rogers tells us that Lady Bathurst 
sent him some letters written to Wil- 
liam III. by Queen Mary, in which she 
addresses him as " Dear Husban" 



23 8 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



The old form expoun\ which our farm- 
ers use, is more correct than the form 
with a barbarous d tacked on v^hich 
has taken its place. Of the kind oppo- 
site to this, like our gown d for gown, 
and the London cockney's wind for 
wine, I find drownd for drown in the 
"Misfortunes of Arthur " (1584), and 
in Swift. And, by the way, whence 
came the long sound of wind which 
our poets still retain, and which sur- 
vives in "winding" a horn, a totally 
different word from "winding" a kite- 
string? We say behind and hinder 
(comparative), and yet to hinder. 
Shakespeare pronounced kind kind, 
or what becomes of his play on that 
word and kin in Hamlet? .Nay, did 
he not even (shall I dare to hint it?) 
drop the final d as the Yankee still 
does? John Lilly plays in the same 
way on kindred and kindness. But to 
come to some other ancient instances. 
Warner rhymes b muds with croujns, 
grounds with towns, text with sex, 
worst with crust, interrupts with cufis ; 
Drayton, defects with sex ; Chapman, 
amends with cleanse ; Webster, defects 
with checks ; Ben Jonson, minds with 
combines ; Marston, trust and obse- 
quious, clothes and shows ; Dryden 
gives the same sound to clothes, and 
has also minds with designs Of 
course, I do not affirm that their ears 
may not have told them that these were 
imperfect rhymes (though I am by no 
means sure even of that), but they 
surely would never have tolerated any 
such had they suspected the least vul- 
garity in them. Prior has the rhvme 
first and trust, but puts it into the 
mouth of a landlady. Swift has stunted 
and burnt it, an intentionally imperfect 
rhyme, no doubt, but which I cite as 
giving precisely the Yankee pronuncia- 
tion of burned. Donne couples in 
unhallowed wedlock after and matter, 
thus seeming to give to both the true 
Yankee sound ; and it is not uncommon 
to find after and daughter. Worse 
than all, in one of Dodsley's Old Plays 
we have onions rhyming with minions, 
— I have tears in my eyes while I record 
it. And yet what is viler than the uni- 



versal Misses {Mrs.) for Mistress? 
This was once a vulgarism, and in 
"The Miseries of In forced Marriage" 
the rhyme (printed as prose in Dods- 
ley's Old Piays by Collier), 

" To make my young >tustress, 
Delighting in kisses* 

is put in the mouth of the clown. Our 
people say Injun for Indian. The 
tendency to make this change where 1 
follows d is common. The Italian 
giorno and French jour from diuruus 
are familiar examples. And yet Injun 
is one of those depravations which the 
taste challenges peremptorily, though it 
have the authority of Charles Cotton — 
who rhymes " Indies " with " cringes " 
— and four English lexicographers, be- 
ginning with Dr. Sheridan, bid us say 
invidgeous. Yet after all it is no worse 
than the debasement which all our ter- 
minations in Hon and tience have un- 
dergone, which yet we hear with resig- 
nashun and />ayshunce, though it might 
have aroused both imfiat-i-ence and 
indigna-ti-on in Shakespeare's time. 
When George Herbert tells us that if 
the sermon be dull, 

" God takes a text and preacheth pati-ence." 

the prolongation of the word seems to 
convey some hint at the longanimity 
of the virtue. Consider what a poor 
curtal we have made of Ocean. There 
was something of his heave and ex- 
panse in o-ce-an, and Fletcher knew 
how to use it when he wrote so fine a 
verse as the second of these, the best 
deep-sea verse I know, — 

" In desperate storms stem with a little rud- 
der 
The tumbling ruins of the ocean.'* 

Oceanus was not then wholly shorn of 
his divine proportions, and our modern 
oshun sounds like the gush of small- 
beer in comparison. Some other con- 
tractions of ours have a vulgar air 
about them. More '« for more tha7i, 
as one of the worst, may stand for a 
type of such. Yet our old dramatists 
are full #f such obscurations (elisions 
they can hardly be called) of the th, 
making whe'r of whether^ bro^r of 



INTRODUCTION. 



239 



brother, smo'r of smother, mo' r of 
mother, and so on. Indeed, it is this 
that explains the word rare (which has 
Dryden's support), and which we say 
of meat where an Englishman would 
use underdone. 1 do not believe, with 
the dictionaries, that it had ever any- 
thing to do with the Icelandic hrdr 
[raw), as it plainly has not in rareripe, 
which means earlier ripe. And I do 
not believe it, lor this reason, that the 
earlier form of the word with us was, 
and the commoner now in the inland 
parts still is, so far as I can discover, 
raredone. 1 find rather as a mono- 
syllable in Donne, and still better, as 
giving the sound, rhyming with fair in 
Warner. The contraction more '« I 
find in the old play " Fuimus Troes," 
in a verse where the measure is so 
strongly accented as to leave it beyond 
doubt, — 

•• A golden crown whose heirs 
More than half the world subdue." 

It may be, however, that the contrac- 
tion is in •" th' orld." Is our gin for 
given more violent than mar 1 1 for mar- 
vel, which was once common, and which 
I find as late as Herrick ? Nay, Her- 
nck has gin (spelling it g'en), too, as 
do the Scotch, who agree with us like- 
wise in preferring chimly to chimney. 

I will now leave pronunciation and 
turn to words or phrases which have 
been supposed peculiar to us, only paus- 
ing to pick up a single dropped stitch, in 
the pronunciation of the word supreme, 
which I had thought native till I found 
it in the well-languaged Daniel. I 
will begin with a word of which I have 
never met with any example in print. 
We express the first stage of withering 
in a green plant suddenly cut down by 
the verb to wilt. It is, of course, own 
cousin of the German welken, but I 
have never come upon it in print, and 
my own books of reference give me faint 
help. Graff gives welhen, marcescere, 
and refers to iveih {weak), and conjec- 
turally to A. S. hvelan. The A. S. 
wealwian {to wither) isnearet, but not 
so near as two words in the Icelandic, 
which perhaps put us on the track of 



its ancestry, — velgi {tepefacere) and 
velki, with the derivative meaning con- 
taminare. Wilt, at any rate, is a good 
word, filling, as it does, a sensible gap 
between drooping and withering, and 
the imaginative phrase tk he wilted 
right down," like " he caved right in," 
is a true Americanism. Wilt occurs 
in English provincial glossaries, but is 
explained by wither, which with us it 
does not mean. We have a few words 
such as cache, cchog, carry {portage), 
shoot {chute), timber {forest), bush- 
whack (to pull a boat along by the 
bushes on the edge of a stream), buck- 
eye (a picturesque word for the horse- 
chestnut) ; but how many can we be 
said to have lairly brought into the lan- 
guage, as Alexander Gill, who first 
mentions Americanisms, meant it when 
he said, " Sed et ab Americams non- 
nulla mutuamur ut maiz et canoa " ? 
Very few, I suspect, and those mostly 
by borrowing from the French, Ger- 
man, Spanish, or Indian. " The Dip- 
per" for the " Great Bear " strikes me 
as having a native air. Bogus, in the 
sense of worthless, is undoubtedly ours, 
but is, I more than suspect, a corrup- 
tion of the French bagasse (from low 
Latin bagasea), which travelled up the 
Mississippi from New Orleans, where 
it was used for the refuse of the sugar- 
cane. It is true we have modified the 
meaning of some words. We use freshet 
in the sense of flood, for which I have 
not chanced upon any authority. Our 
New England cross between Ancient 
Pistol and Dugald Dalgetty, Captain 
Underbill, uses the word (1638) to 
mean a current, and I do not recollect 
it elsewhere in that sense. I therefore 
leave it with a ? for future explorers. 
Crick for creek I find in Captain John 
Smith and in the dedication of Ful- 
ler's " Hoiv Warre," and run, mean- 
ing a small streavt, in Waymouth's 
" Voyage" (1605). Humans for men, 
which Mr. Bartlett includes in his 
" Dictionary of Americanisms," is 
Chapman's habitual phrase in histrans- 
lation of Homer I find it also in the 
old play of " The Hog hath lost his 
Pearl." Dogs for andirons is still cur- 



240 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



rent in New England, and in Walter 
de Biblesworth 1 find chiens glossed in 
the margin by andirons. Gunning for 
shooting is in Drayton. We once got 
credit tor the poetical word fall lor 
autumn, but Mr. JBartlett and the last 
edition of Webster's Dictionary refer 
us to Dryden. It is even older, lor I 
find it in Drayton, and Bishop Hall 
has autumn fall. Middleton plays 
upon the word : " May'st thou have a 
reasonable good spring, for thou art 
like to have many dangerous foul falls." 
Lord Herbert of Cherbury (more prop- 
erly perhaps than even Sidney, the last 
preux chevalier) has "the Emperor's 
folks " just as a Yankee would say it. 
Loan for le?id, with which we have 
hitherto been blackened, I must retort 
upon the mother island, for it appears 
so long ago as in " Albion's England." 
Fleshy, in the sense of stout, may claim 
Ben Jonson's warrant. Chore is also 
Jonson's word, and I am inclined to 
prefer it to chare and char, because I 
think that I see a more natural origin 

for it in the French jou> whence it 

might come to mean a day's work, and 
thence a job — than anywhere else. A t 
onst for at once I thought a corruption 
of our own, till I found it in the Ches- 
ter Plays. I am now inclined to sus- 
pect it no corruption at all, but only an 
erratic and obsolete superlative at ouest. 
To progress 1 was flung in our teeth till 
Mr. Pickering retorted with Shake- 
speare's " doth pro'gress down thy 
cheeks." I confess that I was never 
satisfied with this answer, because the 
accent was different, and because the 
word might here be reckoned a sub- 
stantive quite as well as a verb. Mr. 
Bartlett (in his Dictionary above cited) 
adds a surrebutter in a verse from 
Ford's " Broken Heart." Here the 
word is clearly a verb, but with the ac- 
cent unhappilv still on the first sylla- 
ble. Mr. Bartlett says that he " can- 
not say whether the word was used in 
Bacon's time or not." It certainly 
was, and with the accent we give to it. 
Ben Jonson, in the "Alchemist," has 
this verse, — 
" Progress' so from extreme unto extreme." 



Surely we may now sleep in peace, and 
our English cousins will forgive us, 
since we have cleared ourselves from 
any suspicion of originality in the mat- 
ter ! Poor for lean, thirds for dower, 
and dry for thirsty I find in Middle- 
ton's plays. Dry is also in Skelton and 
in the " World " (1754). In a note on 
Middleton, Mr. Dyce thinks it needful 
to explain the phiase / can't tell (uni- 
versal in America) by the gloss / could 
jiot say. Middleton also uses snecked, 
which I had believed an Americanism 
till I saw it there. It is, of course, only 
another form of snatch, analogous to 
theek and thatch (cf. the proper names 
Dekker and Thacher), break (brack) 
and breach, make (still common with 
us) and match. Lcng on for occa- 
sioned by ("who is this 'long on?") 
occurs likewise in Middleton. 'Cause 
why is in Chaucer. Raising (an Eng- 
lish version of the French leaven) tor 
yeast is employed by Gayton in his 
" Festivous Notes on Don Quixote." I 
have never seen an instance of our New 
England word emptins in the same 
sense, nor can I divine its original. 
Gayton has limekill ; also shuts for 
shutters, and the latter is used by Mrs. 
Hutchinson in her " Life of Colonel 
Hutchinson." Bishop Hall, and Pur- 
chas in his " Pilgrims," have chist for 
chest, and it is certainly nearer cista, as 
well as to its form in the Teutonic 
languages, whence probably we got it. 
We retain the old sound in cist, but 
chest is as old as Chaucer. Lovelace 
says wropt for wrapt. " Musicianer " 
I had always associated with the militia- 
musters of my boyhood, and too has- 
tily concluded it an abomination of our 
own, but Mr. Wright calls it a Norfolk 
word, and I find it to be as old as 1642 
by an extract in Collier. " Not worth 
the time of day " had passed with me 
for native till I saw it in Shakespeare s 
"Pericles." For slick (which is only 
a shorter sound of sleek, like crick 
and the now universal britches for 
breeches) I will only call Chapman and 
Jonson. " That 's a sure card ! " and 
" That 's a stinger ! " both sound like 
modern slang, but you will find the one 



INTRODUCTION, 



241 



in the old interlude of " Thersytes " 
(1537), and the other in Mlddleton. 
" Right here " a favorite phrase with 
our orators and with a certain class of 
our editors, turns up passim in the 
Chester and Coventry plays. Mr. 
Dickens found something very ludicrous 
in what he considered our neologism 
right away. But I find a phrase very 
like it, and Which I half suspect to be 
a misprint for it, in "Gammer Gur- 
ton " : — 

M Lyght it and bring it tite away" 

After all, what is it but another form 
of straightway ? Cusseduess, meaning 
wickedness, malignity, and cuss, a. 
sneaking, ill-natured fellow, in such 
phrases as " He done it out o' pure 
cussedness," and "He is a nateral 
cuss," have been commonly thought 
Yankeeisms. To vent certain con- 
temptuously indignant moods they are 
admirable in their rough-and-ready 
way. But neither is our own. Cursyd- 
nesse, in the same sense of malignant 
wickedness, occurs in the Coventry 
Plays, and cuss may perhaps claim to 
have come in with the Conqueror. At 
least the term is also French. Saint Si- 
mon uses it and confesses its usefulness. 
Speaking of the Abbe Dubois he says, 
"Qui etoit en plein ce qu'un mauvais 
franr;ois appelle un sacre, mais qui ne 
se peut guere exprimer autrement." 
" Not worth a cuss," though supported 
by "not worth a damn," may be a 
mere corruption, since "not worth a 
cress" is in " Piers Ploughman." "I 
don't see it " was the popular slang a 
year or two ago, and seemed to spring 
from the soil ; but no, it is in Cibber's 
" Careless Husband." " Green sauce " 
for vegetables I meet in Beaumont agd 
Fletcher, Gayton, and elsewhere. Our 
rustic pronunciation sahce (for either 
the diphthong au was anciently pro- 
nounced ah, or else we have followed 
abundant analogy in changing it to the 
latter sound, as we have in chance, 
dance, and so many more) may be the 
older one, and at least gives some hint 
at its ancestor salsa. Warn, in the 
sense of notify ; is, I believe, now pe- 
16 



culiar to us, but Pecock so employs it. 
To cotton to is, I rather think, an 
Americanism. The nearest approach 
to it I have found is cotton together, in 
Congreve's " Love for Love." To cot- 
ton or cotten, in another sense, is old 
and common. Our word means to 
cling, and its origin, possibly, is to be 
sought in another direction, perhaps in 
A. S. cvead, which means mud, clay 
(both proverbially clinging), or better 
yet, in the Icelandic qvoda {otherwise 
hod), meaning resin and glue, which 
are /car' igoxyv sticky substances. To 
spit cotton is, I think, American, and 
aiso, perhaps, to Jlax for to beat. To 
the halves still survives among us, 
though apparently obsolete in England. 
It means either to let or to hire a piece 
of land, receiving half the profit in 
money or in kind (partibus locare). I 
mention it because in a note by some 
English editor, to which I have lost 
my reference, I have seen it wrongly 
explained. The editors of Nares cite 
Burton. To put, in the sense of toga, 
as Put ! for Begone ! would seem our 
own, and yet it is strictly analogous to 
the French se mettre a, la voie, and the 
Italian mettersi in vi*. Indeed, Dante 
has a verse, 

" Io sarei [for mi sarei] gia fnesso per lo 
sentiero" 

which, but for the indignity, might be 

translated, 

" I should, ere this, have put along the way." 

I deprecate in advance any share 
in General Banks's notions of inter- 
national law, but we may all take a 
just pride in his exuberant eloquence 
as something distinctively American. 
When he spoke a few years ago of 
"letting the Union slide," even those 
who, for political purposes, reproached 
him with the sentiment, admired the 
indigenous virtue of his phrase. Yet I 
find "let the world slide" in Hey- 
wood's " Edward IV." ; and in Beau- 
mont and Fletcher's " Wit without 
Money" Valentine says, 

" Will you go drink, 
And let the world slide?" 



*4* 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



In the one case it is put into the mouth 
of a clown, in the other, of a gentle- 
man, and was evidently proverbial. It 
has even higher sanction, for Chaucer 
writes, 

" Well nigh all other cures let he slide." 

Mr. Bartlett gives " above one's bend " 
as an Americanism ; but compare Ham- 
let's "to the top of my bent." In his 
tracks for immediately has acquired an 
American accent, and passes where he 
can for a native, but is an importation 
nevertheless ; for what is he but the 
Latin e vestigio, or at best the Norman 
French enesles/>as, both which have 
the same meaning? Hotfoot (provin- 
cial also in England), I find in the old 
romance of " Tristan," 

" Si sen parti CHAUT PAS." 

Like for as is never used in New Eng- 
land, but is universal in the South and 
West. It has on its side the authority 
of two kings {ego sum rex Romano- 
rum et supra grammaticam), Henry 
VIII. and Charles I. This were am- 
ple, without throwing into the scale the 
scholar and poet Daniel. Them was 
used as a nominative by the majesty of 
Edward VI., by Sir P. Hoby, and by 
Lord Paget (in Froude's "History"). 
I have never seen any passage adduced 
where guess was used as the Yankee 
uses it. The word was familiar in the 
mouths of our ancestors, but with a dif- 
ferent shade of meaning from that we 
have given it, which is something like 
rather think, though the Yankee im- 
plies a confident certainty by it when 
he says, "I guess I du!" There are 
two examples in Otway, one of which 
("So in the struggle, I guess the note 
was lost") perhaps might serve our 
purpose, and Coleridge's • 

*' I gues9 't was fearful there to see " 

certainly comes very near. But I have 
a higher authority than either in Sel- 
den, who, in one of his notes to the 
" Polyolbion," writes, " The first in- 
ventor of them (I guess you dislike not 
the addition) was one Berthold Swartz." 
Here he must mean by it, "I take it 



for granted." Another peculiarity al- 
most as prominent is the beginning 
sentences, especially in answer to ques- 
tions, with " well." Put before such a 
phrase as " How d'e do ? " it is com- 
monly short, and has the sound oiwul y 
but in reply it is deliberative, and the 
various shades of meaning which can 
be conveyed by difference of intonation, 
and by prolonging or abbreviating, I 
should vainly attempt to describe. I 
have heard ooa ahl y wait I, a/il, well, 
and something nearly approaching the 
sound of the le in able. Sometimes be- 
fore " I " it dwindles to a mere /, as 
" '1 / dunno." A friend of mine (why 
should I not please myself, though I 
displease him, by brightening my page 
with the initials of the most exquisite 
of humorists, J. H. ?) told me that he 
once heard five "wells," like pioneers, 
precede the answer to an inquiry about 
the price of land. The first was the 
ordinary wttl, in deference to custom ; 
the second, the long, perpending ooahl, 
with a falling inflection of the voice ; 
the third, the same, but with the voice 
rising, as if in despair of a conclusion, 
into a plaintively nasal whine ; the 
fourth, wulh, ending in the aspirate of 
a sigh ; and then, fifth, came a short, 
sharp wal, showing that a conclusion 
had been reached. I have used this 
latter form in the " Biglow Papers," 
because, if enough nasality be added, 
it represents most nearly the average 
sound of what I may call the interjec- 
tion. 

A locution prevails in the Southern 
and Middle States which is so curious 
that, though never heard in New Eng- 
land, I will give a few lines to its dis- 
cussion, the more readily because it is 
extinct elsewhere. I mean the use of 
allow in the sense of affirm, as " I 
allow that 's a good horse." I find the 
word so used in 1558 by Anthony Jen- 
kinson in Hakluyt : " Come they sowe 
not, neither doe eate any bread, mock- 
ing the Christians for the same, and 
disabling our strengthe, saying we live 
by eating the toppe of a weede, and 
drinke a drinke made of the same, 
allowing theyr great devouring of flesh 



INTRODUCTION. 



»43 



and drinking of milke to be the in- 
crease of theyr strength." That is, 
they undervalued our strength, and 
affirmed their own to be the result of 
a certain diet. In another passage of 
the same narrative the word has its 
more common meaning of approving 
or praising : " The said king, much 
allowing this declaration, said." Du- 
cange quotes Bracton sub voce adlo- 
care for the meaning "to admit as 
proved," and the transition from this 
to " affirm " is by no means violent. 
At the same time, when we consider 
some of the meanings of allow in old 
English, and of alloiier in old French, 
and also remember that the verbs prize 
and praise are from one root, I think 
we must admit allaudare to a share in 
the paternity of allow. The sentence 
from Hakluyt would read equally well, 
"contemning our strengthe, .... and 
praising (or valuing) their great eating 
of flesh as the cause of their increase 
in strength." After all, if we confine 
ourselves to allocare, it may turn out 
that the word was somewhere and 
somewhen used for to bet, analogously 
to put up, put down, post (cf. Spanish 
apostar), and the like. I hear boys in 
the street continually saying, " I bet 
that 's a good horse," or what not, 
meaning by no means to risk anything 
beyond their opinion in the matter. 

The word improve, in the sense of 
"to occupy, make use of, employ," as 
Dr. Pickering defines it, he long ago 
proved to be no neologism. He would 
have done better, I think, had he sub- 
stituted profit by for employ. He cites 
Dr. Franklin as saying that the word 
had never, so far as he knew, been used 
in New England before he left it in 
1723, except in Dr. Mather's " Re- 
markable Providences." which he 
oddly calls a " very old book." Frank- 
lin, as Dr. Pickering goes on to show, 
was mistaken. Mr. Bartlett in his 
"Dictionary" merely abridges Pick- 
ering. Both of them should have con- 
fined the application of the word to 
material things, its extension to which 
is all that is peculiar in the supposed 
American use of it. For surely " Com- 



plete Letter-Writers" have been "im- 
proving this opportunity " time out of 
mind. I will illustrate the word a lit- 
tle further, because Pickering cites no 
English authorities. Skelton has a 
passage in his " Phyllyp Sparowe," 
which I quote the rather as it contains 
also the word allowed, and as it dis- 
tinguishes improve from employ : — 

" His [Chaucer's] Englysh well alowed, 
So as it is eiipr<rwed, 
For as it is enployd, 
There is no English voyd." 

Here the meaning is to profit by. In 
Fuller's "Holy Warre " (1647), we 
have "The Egyptians standing on the 
firm ground, were thereby enabled to 
improve and enforce their darts to the 
utmost." Here the word might cer- 
tainly mean to make use of. Mrs. 
Hutchinson (Life of Colonel H ) uses 
the word in the same way : " And there- 
fore did not emproove his interest to 
engage the country in the quarrell." I 
find it also in " Strength out of Weak- 
ness" (1652), and Plutarch's "Mor- 
als" (1714), but I know of only one 
example of its use in the purely Amer- 
ican sense, and that is, " a very good 
improvement for a mill " in the " State 
Trials" (Speech of the Attorney-Gen- 
eral in the Lady Ivy's case, 1684). 
Swift in one of his letters says : " There 
is not an acre of land in Ireland turned 
to half its advantage; yet it is better 
improved than the people."* In the 
sense of employ, I could cite a dozen 
old English authorities. 

In running over the fly-leaves of 
those delightful folios for this reference, 
I find a note which reminds me of an- 
other word, for our abuse of which we 
have been deservedly ridiculed. I 
mean lady. It is true I might cite the 
example of the Italian donna t (domi- 
na), which has been treated in the 
same way by a whole nation, and not, 
as lady among us, by the uncultivated 
only. It perhaps grew into use in the 
half-democratic republics of Italy in 
the same way and for the same reasons 

* Swift, letter to Brandorth, O. R. I., 154. 
f Dame, in English, is a decayed gentle- 
woman of the same family. 



*44 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



as with us. But I admit that our abuse 
of the word is villanous. I know of an 
orator who once said in a public meet- 
ing where bonnets preponderated, that 
" the ladies were last at the cross and 
first at the tomb"! But similar sins 
were committed before our day and in 
the mother country. In the' "State 
Trials " I learn of " a gentlewoman 
that lives cook with " such a one, and 
I hear the Lord High Steward speak- 
ing of the wife of a waiter at a bagnio 
as a gentlewoman I From the same 
authority, by the way, I can state that 
our vile habit of chewing tobacco had 
the somewhat unsavory example of Ti- 
tus Oates, and I know by tradition from 
an eye-witness that the elegant General 
Burgoyne partook of the same vice. 
Howell, in one of his letters (dated 
26 August, 1623), speaks thus of an- 
other "institution" which many have 
thought American : " They speak 
much of that boisterous Bishop of Hal- 
verstadt (for so they term him here), 
that, having taken a place wher ther 
were two Monasteries of Nuns and 
Friers, he caus'd divers feather-beds to 
be rip'd, and all the feathers to be 
thrown in a great Hall, whither the 
Nuns and Friers were thrust naked 
with their bodies oil'd and pitch'd, and 
to tumble among the feathers." How- 
ell speaks as if the thing were new to 
him, and I know not if the "boister- 
ous" Bishop was the inventor of it, 
but I find it practised in England be- 
fore our Revolution. 

Before leaving the subject, I will 
add a few comments made from time to 
time on the margin of Mr. Bartlett's 
excellent "Dictionary," to which I 
am glad thus publicly to acknowledge 
my many obligations. " Avails " is 
good o'd English, and the vails of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds's porter are famous. 
Axerse from, averse to, and in connec- 
tion with them the English vulgarism 
"different to. 11 The corrupt use of to 
in these cases, as well as in the Yan- 
kee " he lives to Salem," " to home," 
and others, must be a very old one, for 
in the one case it plainly arose from 
confounding the two French preposi- 



tions a (from Latin ad and ab\ and in 
the other from translating the first of 
them. I once thought "different to" 
a modern vulgarism, and Mr. Thacke- 
ray, on my pointing it out to him in 
"Henry Esmond," confessed it to be 
an anachronism. Mr. Bartlett refers 
to "the old writers quoted in Richard- 
son's Dictionary" for "different to," 
but in my edition of that work all the 
examples are with from. But I find 
to used invariably by Sir R. Hawkins 
in Hakluyt. Banjo is a negro corrup- 
tion of O. E. bandore. Bindweed 
can hardly be modern, for woodbind 
is old and radically right, intertwining 
itself through bindan and windan with 
classic stems. Bobolink : is this a 
contraction for Bob o' Lincoln ? I find 
bobolynes, in one of the poems attrib- 
uted to Skelton, where it may be ren- 
dered giddy-pate, a term very fit for 
the bird in his ecstasies. Cruel for 
great is in Hakluyt. Bowling-alley is 
in Nash's " Pierce Pennilesse " Curi- 
ous, meaning nice, occurs continually 
in old writers, and is as old as Pecock's 
" Repressor." Droger is O. E. drug- 
ger. Educational is in Burke, feeze 
is only a form oi fizz. To fix, in the 
American sense, I find used by the 
Commissioners of the United Colonies 
so early as 1675, "their arms v^cW fixed 
and fit for service." To take the foot 
in the hand is German ; so is to go 
under. Gundalow is old : I find gun- 
delo in Hakluyt, and gnndello in 
Booth's reprint of the folio Shake- 
speare of 1623. Gonojf\s O. E. gnoffe. 
Heap is in " Piers Ploughman " (" and 
other names an heep "), and in Hak- 
luyt (" seeing such a heap of their ene- 
mies ready to devour them"). To li- 
quor is in the "Puritan" ("call 'em 
in, and liquor 'em a little "). To loaf: 
this, I think, is unquestionably Ger- 
man. Laufen is pronounced lofen in 
some parts of Germany, and I once 
heard one German student say to 
another, Ich lauf (lofe) hier bis du 
wiederkehrest, and he began according- 
ly to saunter up and down, in short, to 
loaf. To mull, Mr Bartlett says, 
means "to soften, to dispirit," and 



INTRODUCTION. 



*45 



quotes from " Margaret," — " There 
has been a pretty considerable midlin 
going on among the doctors," — where 
it surely cannot mean what he says it 
does. We have always heard mulling' 
used for stirring, bustling, sometimes 
in an underhand way. It is a meta- 
phor derived probably from mulling 
wine, and the word itself must be a 
corruption of mell, from O. F. mesler. 
Pair of stairs is in Hakluyt. To pull 
up stakes is in Curwen's Journal, and 
therefore pre- Revolutionary. I think 
I have met with it earlier. Raise : 
under this word Mr. Bartlett omits " to 
raise a house," that is, the frame of a 
wooden one, and also the substantive 
formed from it, a raisin\ Retire for 
go to bed is in Fielding's "Amelia." 
Setting-poles cannot be new, for I find 
"some set [the boats] with \ox\<g poles " 
in Hakluyt. Shoulder-hitters : I find 
that shoulder-striker is old, though I 
have lost the reference to my authori- 
ty. Snag is no new word, though per- 
haps the Western application of it is 
so ; but I find in Gill the proverb, " A 
bird in the bag is worth two on the 
snag." Dryden has swop and to 
rights. Trail: Hakluyt has "many 
wayes traled by the wilde beastes." 

I subjoin a few phrases not in Mr. 
Bartlett's book which I have heard. 
Bald-headed: "to go it bald-head- 
ed " ; in great haste, as where one 
rushes out without his hat. Bogue : 
" I don't git much done 'thout I bogue 
right in along 'th my men." Carry: 
a portage. Cat-nap : a short doze. 
Cat- stick : a small stick. Chowder- 
head : a muddle-brain. Cling-john: 
a soft cake of rye. Cocoa-nut : the 
head. Cohees' : applied to the people 
of certain settlements in Western 
Pennsylvania, from their use of the 
archaic form Quo' he. Dunnow'z I 
know : the nearest your true Yankee 
ever comes to acknowledging igno- 
rance. Essence-pedler : a skunk. 
First-rate and a half. Fish-flakes, 
for drying fish : O. E. fleck (cratis). 
Gander-party ; a social gathering of 
men only. Gawnicus : a dolt. Hawk- 
ins's whetstone : rum ; in derision of 



one Hawkins, a well-known tem- 
perance-lecturer. Hyper : to bustle : 
" I mus' hyper about an' git tea." 
Keeler-tub : one in which dishes are 
washed. (" And Greasy Joan doth 
keel the pot.") Laptea : where the 
guests are too many to sit at table. 
Last of pea-time : to be hard up. 
Lose-laid K loose-laid) : a weaver's term, 
and probably English ; weak-willed. 
Malahack : to cut up hastily or awk- 
wardly. Moonglade : a beautiful word 
for the track of moonlight on the 
water. Off-ox : an unmanageable, 
cross-grained fellow Old Driver, 
Old Splitfoot ; the Devil. Onhitch: 
to pull trigger (cf Spanish disparar). 
Popular: conceited. Rote: sound of 
surf before a storm. Rot-gut : cheap 
whiskey ; the w ord occurs in Hey- 
wood's " English Traveller" and Ad- 
dison's " Drummer," for a poor kind 
of drink. Seem: it is habitual with 
the New-Englander to put this verb to 
strange uses, as, " I can't seem to be 
suited," " I couldn't seem to know 
him." Sidehill, for hillside. State- 
house : this seems an Americanism, 
whether invented or derived from the 
Dutch Stadhuys, I know not. Strike 
and string: from the game of nine- 
pins ; to make a strike is to knock 
down all the pins with one ball, hence 
it has come to mean fortunate, success- 
ful. Swampers : men who break out 
roads for lumberers. Tormented: 
euphemism for damned, as, "not a 
tormented cent." Virginia fence* to 
make a : to walk like a drunken man. 
It is always worth while to note down 
the erratic words or phrases which one 
meets with in any dialect. They may 
throw light on the meaning of other 
words, on the relationship of languages, 
or even on history itself. In so com- 
posite a language as ours they often 
supply a different form to express a 
different shade of meaning as in viol 
and fiddle, thrid and thread, smother 
and smoidder, where the / has crept 
in by a false analogy with ivoidd. We 
have given back to England the ex- 
cellent adjective lengthy, formed hon- 
estly like earthy, drouthy, and others, 



246 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



thus enabling their journalists to char- 
acterize our President's messages*by a 
word civilly compromising between 
long and tedious, so as not to endan- 
ger the peace of the two countries by 
wounding our national sensitiveness to 
British criticism. Let me give two 
curious examples of the antiseptic 
property of dialects at which I have 
already glanced. Dante has dindi as 
a childish or low word for danari 
(money), and in Shropshire small Ro- 
man coins are still dug up which the 
peasants call dinders. This can hardly 
be a chance coincidence, but seems 
rather to carry the word back to the 
Roman soldiery. So our farmers say 
chuk, chuk, to their pigs, and ciacco 
is one of the Italian words for hog. 
When a countryman tells us that he 
"fell all of a heap" I cannot help 
thinking that he unconsciously points 
to an affinity between our word tumble, 
and the Latin tumulus, that is older 
than most others. 1 believe that words, 
or even the mere intonation of them, 
have an astonishing vitality and power 
of propagation by the root, like the 
gardener's pest, quitch-grass,* while 
the application or combination of them 
may be new. It is in these last that 
my countrymen seem to me full of 
humor, invention, quickness of wit, 
and that sense of subtle analogy which 
needs only refining to become fancy and 
imagination. Prosaic as American life 
seems in many of its aspects to a 
European, bleak and bare as it is on 
the side of tradition, and utterly or- 
phaned of the solemn inspiration of an- 
tiquity, I cannot help thinking that the 
ordinary talk of unlettered men among 
us is fuller of metaphor and of phrases 
that suggest lively images than that of 
any other people I have seen. Very 
many such will be found in Mr. Bart- 
lett's book, though his ?hort list of 
proverbs at the end seem to me, with 
one or two exceptions, as un-American 
as possible. Most of them have no 

* Which, whether in that form, or under 
its aliases wz'/cA-grass and rtw/j-grass, points 
us back to its original Saxon quick. 



character at all but coarseness, and are 
quite too long-skirted for working prov- 
erbs, in which language always " takes 
off its coat to it," as a Yankee would 
say. There are plenty that have a 
more native and puckery flavor, seed- 
lings from the old stock often, and yet 
new varieties. One hears such not 
seldom among us Easterners, and the 
West would yield many more. " Mean 
enough to steal acorns from a blind 
hog" ; " Cold as the north side of a 
Jenooary gravestone by starlight " ; 
" Hungry as a graven image " ; " Pop'- 
lar as a hen with one chicken " ; 
" Quicker 'n greased lightnin' " ; 
" Ther 's sech a thing ez bein' tu " ; 
" Stingy enough to skim his milk at 
both eends " ; " Hot as the Devil's 
kitchen " ; " Handy as a pocket in a 
shirt " ; " He 's a whole team and 
the dog under the wagon " ; " All 
deacons are good, but there 's odds in 
deacons " (to deacon berries is to put 
the largest atop); "So thievish they 
hev to take in their stone walls 
nights " ; * may serve as specimens. 
" I take my tea barfooty" said a 
backwoodsman when asked if he would 
have cream and sugar. (I find barfoot, 
by the way, in the Coventry Plays.) A 
man speaking to me once of a very 
rocky clearing said, "Stone 's got a pret- 
ty heavy mortgage on that land," and 
I overheard a guide in the woods say 
to his companions who were urging 
him to sing, " Wal, I did sing once, 
but toons gut invented, an' thet spilt 
my trade." Whoever has driven over 
a stream by a bridge made of slabs will 
feel the picturesque force of the epithet 
slab-bridged applied to a fellow of 
shaky character. Almost every county 
has some good die-sinker in phrase, 
whose mintage passes into the cur- 
rency of the whole neighborhood. Such 
a one described the county jail (the one 
stone building where all the dwellings 
are of wood) as " the house whose un- 
derpinnin' come up to the eaves," and 

* And, by the way, the Yankee never says 
" o' nights," but uses the older adverbial 
form, analogous to the German nachts. 



I NT ROD UC T10N. 



247 



called hell "the place where they 
did n't rake up their fires nights." 
I once asked a stage-driver if the other 
side of a hill were as steep as the one 
we were climbing : " Steep ? chain- 
lightnin' could n' go down it 'thout 
puttin' the shoe on ! " And this brings 
me back to the exaggeration of which 
I spoke before. To me there is some- 
thing very taking in the negro "so 
black that charcoal made a chaik-mark 
on him," and the wooden shingle 
"painted so like marble that it sank 
in water," as if its very consciousness 
or its vanity had been over-persuaded 
by the cunning of the painter. I heard 
a man, in order to give a notion of 
some very cold weather, say to another 
that a certain Joe, who had been taking 
mercury, found a lump of quicksilver in 
each boot, when he went home to 
dinner. This power of rapidly drama- 
tizing a dry fact into flesh and blood, 
and the vivid conception of Joe as a 
human thermometer, strike me as show- 
ing a poetic sense that may be refined 
into faculty. At any rate there is hu- 
mor here, and not mere quickness of 
wit, — the deeper and not the shal- 
lower quality. The tendency of humor 
is always towards overplus of expres- 
sion, while the very essence of wit is its 
logical precision. Captain Basil Hall 
denied that our people had any humor, 
deceived, perhaps, by their gravity of 
manner. But this very seriousness is 
often the outward sign of that humorous 
quality of the mind which delights in 
finding an element of identity in things 
seemingly the most incongruous, and 
then again in forcing an incongruity 
upon things identical. Perhaps Cap- 
tain Hall had no humor himself, and if 
so he would never find it. Did he 
always feel the point of what was said 
to himself? I doubt it, because I happen 
to know a chance he once had given 
him in vain. The Captain was walk- 
ing up and down the veranda of a 
country tavern in Massachusetts while 
the coach changed horses. A thunder- 
storm was going on, and, with that 
pleasant European air of indirect self- 
compliment in condescending to be 



surprised by American merit, which we 
find so conciliating, he said to a coun- 
tryman lounging against the door, 
"Pretty heavy thunder you have here." 
The other, who had divined at a 
glance his feeling of generous conces- 
sion to a new country, drawled gravely, 
"Waal, we du, considerin' the number 
of inhabitants." This, the more I an- 
alyze it, the more humorous does it 
seem. The same man was capable of 
wit also, when he would. He was a 
cabinet-maker, and was once employed 
to make some commandment-tables for 
the parish meeting-house. The parson, 
a very old man, annoyed him by look- 
ing into his workshop every morning, 
and cautioning him to be very sure to 
pick out " clear mahogany without any 
knots in it." At last, wearied out, he 
retorted one day : " Wal, Dr. B., I 
guess ef I was to leave the nois out o' 
some o' the c'man'ments, 't 'ould soot 
you full ez wal ! " 

If I had taken the pains to write 
down the proverbial or pithy phrases 
I have heard, or if I had sooner thought 
of noting the Yankeeisms I met within 
my reading, I might have been able to 
do more justice to my theme. But I 
have done all I wished in respect to 
pronunciation, if I have proved that 
where we are vulgar, we have the coun- 
tenance of very good company. For, as 
to the jus et norma loquendi, I agree 
with Horace and those who have para- 
phrased or commented him, from Boi- 
leau to Gray. I think that a good rule 
for style is Galiani's definition of sub- 
lime oratory, — "l'art de tout dire sans 
etre mis a la Bastille dans un pays ou il 
est defendu de rien dire." I profess my- 
self a fanatical purist, but with a hearty 
contempt for the speech-gilders who 
affect purism without any thorough, or 
even pedagogic, knowledge of the en- 
gendure, growth, and affinities of the 
noble language about whose mesal- 
liances they profess (like Dean Alford) 
to be so solicitous. If they had their 
way — ! " Doch es sey," says Les- 
sing, " dass jene gothische Hoflichkeit 
eine unentbehrliche Tugend des heu- 
tigen Umganges ist. Soil sie darura 



248 



THE B1GL0W PAPERS. 



unsere Schriften eben so schaal und 
falsch machen als unsern Umgang?" 
And Drayton was not lar wrong in af- 
firming that 

*' 'T is possible to climb, 
To kindle, or to slake, 

Although in Skelton's rhyme." 

Cumberland in his Memoirs tells us 
that when, in the midst of Admiral 
Rodney's great sea-fight, Sir Charles 
Douglas said to him, " Behold, Sir 
George, the Greeks and Trojans con- 
tending for the body of Patroclus ! " 
the Admiral answered, peevishly, 
" Damn the Greeks and damn the 
Trojans ! I have other things to think 
of." After the battle was won, Rodney 
thus to Sir Charles, " Now, my dear 
friend, I am at the service of your 
Greeks and Trojans, and the whole of 
Homer's Iliad, or as much of it as you 
please !" I had some such feeling of 
the impertinence of our pseudo-classi- 
cality when I chose our homely dialect 
to work in Should we be nothing, 
because somebody had contrived to be 
something (and that perhaps in a pro- 
vincial dialect) ages ago? and to be 
nothing by our very attempt to be that 
something,which they had already been, 
and which therefore nobody could be 
again without being a bore ? Is there no 
way left, then, I thought, of being nat- 
ural, of being naif, which means noth- 
ing more than native, of belonging tothe 
age and country in which you are born ? 
The Yankee, at least, is a new phe- 
nomenon ; let us try to be that. It is 
perhaps a pis alter, but is not No 
Thoroughfare written up everywhere 
else ? In the literary world, things 
seemed to me very much as they were 
in the latter half of the last century. 
Pope, skimming the cream of good 
sense and expression wherever he could 
find it, had made, not exactlv poetry, 
but an honest, salable butter of 
worldly wisdom which pleasantly lubri- 
cated some of the drier morsels of life's 
daily bread, and seeing this, scores of 
harmlessly insane people went on for 
the next fifty years coaxing his butter- 
milk with the regular up and down of 



the pentameter churn And in our day 

do we not scent everywhere, and even 
carry away in our clothes against our 
will, that faint perfume of musk which 
Mr. Tennyson has left behind him, or 
worse, of Heine's />achou/i ? And might 
it not be possible to escape them by 
turning into one of our narrow New 
England lanes, shut in thougn it were 
by bleak stone walls on either hand, 
and where no better flowers were to 
be gathered than golden-rod and hard- 
hack ? 

Beside the advantage of getting out 
of the beaten track, our dialect offered 
others hardly inferior. As I was about 
to make an endeavor to state them, i 
remembered something which the clear- 
sighted Goethe had said about Hebel's 
Allematinische Gedichte, which, mak- 
ing proper deduction for special reler- 
ence to the book under review, ex- 
presses what I would have said far 
better than I could hope to do : " Allen 
diesen innern guten Eigenschaften 
kommt die behagliche naive Sprache 
sehr zu statten. Man findet mehrere 
sinnlich bedeutende und wohlklingende 
Worte .... von einem, zwei Buch- 
staben, Abbreviationen, Contractionen, 
viele kurze, leichte Sylben, neue Ret- 
me, welches, mehr als man glaubt, ein 
Vortheil fur den Dichter ist. Diese 
Elemente werden durch gliickliche 
Constructionen und lebhafte Formen 
zu einem Styl zusammengedrangt der 
zu diesem Zwecke vor unserer Biicher- 
sprache prosse Vorziige hat." Of 
course I do not mean to imply that / 
have come near achieving anv such 
success as the great critic here indicates, 
but I think the success is there, and 
to be plucked by some more fortunate 
hand. 

Nevertheless, I was encouraged by 
the approval of manv whose opinions I 
valued. With a feeling too tender and 
grateful to be mixed with any vanity, I 
mention as one of these the late A. H. 
Clough, who, more than any one of 
those I have known (no longer living), 
except Hawthorne, impressed me with 
the constant presence of that indefin- 
able thing we call genius. He often 



INTRODUCTION. 



249 



suggested that I should try my hand at 
some Yankee Pastorals, which would 
admit of more sentiment and a higher 
tone without foregoing the advantage 
offered by the dialect. I have never 
completed anything of the kind, but, 
in this Second Series, both my remem- 
brance of his counsel and the deeper 
feeling called up by the great interests 
at stake, led me to venture some pas- 
sages nearer to what is called poetical 
than could have been admitted without 
incongruity into the former series. The 
time seemed calling to me, with the old 
poet, — 

" Leave, then, your wonted prattle, 

The oaten reed forbear ; 
For I hear a sound of battle, 

And trumpets rend the air ! " 

The only attempt I had ever made at 
anything like a pastoral (if that may be 
called an attempt which was the result 
almost of pure accident) was in "The 
Courtin'." While the introduction to 
the First Series was going through the 
press, I received word from the printer 
that there was a blank page left which 
must be filled. I sat down at once and 
improvised another fictitious "notice 
of the press," in which, because verse 
would fill up space more cheaply than 
prose, I inserted an extract from a sup- 
posed ballad of Mr. Biglow. I kept 
no copy of it, and the printer, as di- 
rected, cut it off when the gap was 
filled. Presently I began to receive 
letters asking for the rest of it, some- 
times for the balance of it. I had none, 
but to answer such demands, I patched 
a conclusion upon it in a later edition. 
Those who had only the first continued 
to importune me. Afterward, being 
asked to write it out as an autograph 
for the Baltimore Sanitary Commission 
Fair, I added other verses, into some 
of which I infused a little more senti- 
ment in a homely way, and after a fash- 
ion completed it by sketching in the 
characters and making a connected 
story. Most likely I have spoiled it, 
but I shall put it at the end of this In- 
troduction, to answer once for all those 
kindly importunings. 

As I have seen extracts from what 



purported to be writings of Mr. Biglow, 
which were not genuine, I may prop- 
erly take this opportunity to say, that 
the two volumes now published contain 
every line I ever printed under that 
pseudonyme, and that 1 have never, 
so far as I can remember, written an 
anonymous article (elsewhere than in 
the North American Review, and the 
A tlantic Monthly, during my editorship 
of it) except a review of Mrs. Stowe's 
"Minister's Wooing," and, some 
twenty years ago, a sketch of the anti- 
slavery movement in America for an 
English journal. 

A word more on pronunciation. I 
have endeavored to express this so far 
as I could by the types, taking such 
pains as, I fear, may sometimes make 
the reading harder than need be. At 
the same time, by studying uniformity 
I have sometimes been obliged to sac- 
rifice minute exactness. The empha- 
sis often modifies the habitual sound. 
For example, for is commonly fer (a 
shorter sound than fur for far), but 
when emphatic it always becomes for, 
as "wut_/<?r. ? " So too is pronounced 
like to (as it was anciently spelt), and 
to like ta (the sound as in the tou of 
touch), but too, when emphatic, changes 
into Ute, and to, sometimes, in similar 
cases, into toe, as, " I did n' hardly 
know wut toe du ! " Where vowels 
come together, or one precedes an- 
other following an aspirate, the two 
melt together, as was common with the 
older poets who formed their versifica- 
tion on French or Italian models. 
Drayton is thoroughly Yankee when 
he says "I 'xpect," and Pope when he 
says "t 1 inspire." With becomes 
sometimes Hth, 'iith, or 'th, or even 
disappears wholly where it comes be- 
fore the, as, " I went along th' Square " 
(along with the Squire), the are sound 
being an archaism which I have no- 
ticed also in choir, like the old Scottish 
quhair. (Herrick has, "Of flowers 
ne'er sucked by th' theeving bee.") 
Without becomes athout and Hhout. 
Afterwards always retains its locative 
s, and is pronounced always ahter- 
ivurds'y with a strong accent on the last 



250 



THE BIGLOIV PAPERS. 



syllable. This oddity has some sup- 
port in the erratic towards' instead of 
to'wards, which we find in the poets 
and sometimes hear. The sound given* 
to the first syllable of to' wards, 1 may 
remark, sustains the Yankee lengthen- 
ing of the o in to. At the beginning of 
a sentence, ahterwurds has the accent 
on the first syllable ; at the end of one, 
on the last; as ah'terwurds he toP 
me," "he tol' me ahterwurds' .'\ The 
Yankee never makes a mistake in his 
aspirates. U changes in many words 
to e, always in such, brush, tush, hush, 
-rush, blush, seldom in much, oftener in 
trust and crust, never in mush, gust, 
bust, tumble, or (?) flush, in the latter 
case probably to avoid confusion with 
flesh. I have heard flush with the e 
sound, however. For the same reason, 
I suspect, never in gush (at least, I 
never heard it), because we have al- 
ready one gesh for gash A and /' short 
frequently become e short. U always 
becomes o in the prefix tin (except 
unto), and o in return changes to u 
short in uv for of, and in some words 
beginning with om. T and d, b and p, 
v and w, remain intact. So much oc- 
curs to me in addition to what I said on 
this head in the preface to the former 
volume. 

Of course in what I have said I wish 
to be understood as keeping in mind 
the difference between provincialisms 
properly so called and slang. Slang 
is always vulgar, because it is not a nat- 
ural but an affected way of talking, and 
all mere tricks of speech or writing are 
offensive. I do not think that Mr. Big- 
low can be fairly charged with vulgar- 
ity, and I should have entirely failed in 
my design, if I have not made it appear 
that high and even refined sentiment 
may coexist with the shrewder and 
more comic elements of the Yankee 
character. I believe that what is essen- 
tially vulgar and mean-spirited in poli- 
tics seldom has its source in the body 
of the people, but much rather among 
those who are made timid by their 
wealth or selfish by their love of power. 
A democracy can afford much better 
than an aristocracy to follow out its 



convictions, and is perhaps better qual- 
ified to build those convictions on plain 
principles of right and wrong, rather 
than on the shifting sands of expedi- 
ency. I had always thought " Sam 
Slick" a libel on the Yankee character, 
and a complete falsification of Yankee 
modes of speech, though, for aught I 
know, it may be true in both respects 
so far as the British Provinces are con- 
cerned. To me the dialect was native, 
was spoken all about me when a boy, at 
a time when an Irish day-laborer was 
as rare as an American one now. Since 
then I have made a study of it so far as 
opportunity allowed. But when I write 
in it, it is as in a mother tongue, and I 
am carried back far beyond any studies 
of it to long-ago noonings in my fa- 
ther's hay-fields, and to the talk of Sam 
and Job over their jug of blackstrap 
under the shadow of the ash-tree which 
still dapples the grass whence they have 
been gone so long. 

But life is short, and prefaces should 
be. And so, my good friends, to whom 
this introductory epistle is addressed, 
farewell. Though some of you have 
remonstrated with me, I shall never 
write any more " Biglow Papers," how- 
ever great the temptation, — great espe- 
cially at the present time, — unless it 
be to complete the original plan of this 
Series by bringing out Mr. Sawin as an 
" original Union man." The very fa- 
vor with which they have been received 
is a hindrance to me, by forcing on me 
a self-consciousness from which I was 
entirely free when I wrote the First 
Series. Moreover, I am no longer the 
same careless youth, with nothing to do 
but live to myself, my books, and my 
friends, that I was then. I always 
hated politics, in the ordinary sense of 
the word, and I am not likely to grow 
fonder of them, now that I have learned 
how rare it is to find a man who can 
keep principle clear from party and per- 
sonal prejudice, or can conceive the 
possibility of another's doing so. I 
feel as if I could in some sort claim to 
be an emeritus, and I am sure that po- 
litical satire will have full justice done 
it by that genuine and delightful hu- 



INTRODUCTION. 



251 



morist, the Rev. Petroleum V. Nasby. 
I regret that I killed off Mr. Wilbur so 
soon, fof he would have enabled me to 
bring into this preface a number of 
learned quotations, which mast now go 
a-begging, and also enabled me to dis- 
personalize myself into a vicarious ego- 
tism. He would have helped me also 
in clearing myself from a charge which 
I shall briefly touch on, because my 
friend Mr. Hughes has found it need- 
ful to defend me in his preface to one 
of the English editions of the " Biglow 
Papers." I thank Mr. Hughes heart- 
ily for his friendly care of my good 
name, and were his Preface accessible 
to my readers here (as I am glad it is 
not, for its partiality makes me blush), 
I should leave the matter where he left 
it. The charge is of profanity, brought 
in by persons who proclaimed African 
slavery of Divine institution, and is 
based "(so far as I have heard) on two 
passages in the First Series, — 



and, 



"An' you Ve gut to git up airly, 
Ef you want to take in God," 

" God '11 send the bill to you," 



and on some Scriptural illustration? by 
Mr. Sawin. 

Now, in the first place, I was writ- 
ing under an assumed character and 
must talk as the person would whose 
mouthpiece I made myself. Will any 
one familiar with the New England 
countryman venture to tell me that ( 
he does not speak of sacred things fa- 
miliarly ? That Biblical allusions (al- 
lusions, that is, to the single book with 
whose language, from his church-going 
habits, he, is intimate) are not frequent 
on his lips? If so, he cannot have 
pursued his studies of the character on 
so many long-ago muster-fields and at 
so many cattle-shows as I. But I scorn 
any such line of defence, and will con- 
fess at once that one of the things I am 
proud of in my countrymen is (I am 
not speaking now of such persons as I 
have assumed Mr. Sawin to be) that 
they do not put their Maker away far 
from them, or interpret the fear of God 
into being afraid of Him. The Tal- 1 



mudists had conceived a deep truth 
when they said, that " all things were 
in the power of God, save the fear of 
God " ; and when people stand in great 
dread of an invisible power, I suspect 
they mistake quite another personage 
for the Deity. I might justify myself 
for the passages criticised by many 
parallel ones from Scripture, but I need 
not. The Reverend Homer Wilbur's 
note-books supply me with three appo- 
site quotations. The first is from a 
Father of the Roman Church, the sec- 
ond from a Father of the Anglican, and 
the third from a Father of ModernEng- 
lish poetry. The Puritan divines would 
furnish me with many more such. St. 
Bernard says, Sapiens nummularius 
est Deus : nummum fictum non re- 
cipiet ; " A cunning money-changer is 
God: he will take in no base coin." 
Latimer says, " You shall perceive that 
God, by this example, shaketh us by 
the noses and taketh us by the ears." 
Familiar enough, both of them, one 
would say ! But I should think Mr. 
Biglow had verily stolen the last of the 
two maligned passages from Dryden's 
"Don Sebastian," where I find 

" And beg of Heaven to charge the bill on 
mel " 

And there I leave the matter, being 
willing to believe that the Saint, the 
Martyr, and even the Poet, were as 
careful of God's honor as my critics are 
«ver likely to be. 

J. R. L. 



THE COURTIN'. 

GoD makes sech nights, all white an' 
still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room 's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in — 



252 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



There warn't no stoves (tell comfort 
died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther 
Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

•T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A i, 
Clean grit an' human natur'; 

None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He M sparked it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 
'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he could n't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple, 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some I 
She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 

For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 
Down to her very shoe-sole. 



She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
A-raspin' on the scraper, — 

All ways to once her feelins flew 
Like sparks in burnt- up paper. 

He kin' o' 1'itered on the mat, 
Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" 
" Wal .... no .... I come da« 
signin' " — 
"To see my Ma? She 's sprinklin' 
clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 
Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 

Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
Then stood a spell on t'other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I 'd better call agin " ; 

Says she, " Think likely, Mister " ; 
Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt 
glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 

An' all I know is they was cried 
In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



No. I. 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., 
TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW. 

LETTER FROM THE REVEREND HOMER 
WILBUR, M. A., ENCLOSING THE EPIS- 
TLE AFORESAID. 

JAALAM, 15th Nov., 1861. 
# * # * # 

It is not from any idle wish to ob- 
f/ude my humble person with undue 
prominence upon the publickview that 
I resume my pen upon the present oc- 
casion. Juniores ad labores. But 
having been a main instrument in res- 
cuing the talent of my young parish- 
ioner from being buried in the ground, 
by giving it such warrant with the 
world as could be derived from a name 
already widely known by several print- 
ed discourses (all of which I may be 
permitted without immodesty to state 
have been deemed worthy of preserva- 
tion in the Library of Harvard College 
by my esteemed friend Mr. Sibley), 
it seemed becoming that I should not 
only testify to the genuineness of the 
following production, but call attention 
to it, the more as Mr. Biglow had so 
long been silent as to be in danger of 
absolute oblivion. I insinuate no 
claim to any share in the authorship 
(vix ea nostra voco) of the works al- 
ready published by Mr. Biglow, but 
merely take to myself the credit of 
having fulfilled toward them the office 
of taster {experto crede\ who, having 
first tried, could afterward bear witness 
(credenzen it was aptly named by the 
Germans), an office always arduous, 



and sometimes even dangerous, as in 
the case of those devoted persons who 
venture their lives in the deglutition of 
patent medicines {dolus latet in gen- 
eralibus> there is deceit in the most of 
them) and thereafter are wonderfully 
preserved long enough to append their 
signatures to testimonials in the diurnal 
and hebdomadal prints. I say not this 
as covertly glancing at the authors of 
certain manuscripts which have been 
submitted to my literary judgment 
(though an epick in twenty-four books 
on the "Taking of Jericho" might, 
save for the prudent forethought of 
Mrs. Wilbur in secreting the same 
just as I had arrived beneath the walls 
and was beginning a catalogue of the 
various horns and their blowers, too 
ambitiously emulous in longanimity 
of Homer's list of ships, might, I say, 
have rendered frustrate any hope I 
could entertain vacare Musis for the 
small remainder of my days), but only 
the further to secure mj'self against 
any imputation of unseemly fqrthput- 
ting. I will barely subjoin, in this 
connexion, that, whereas Job was left 
to desire, in the soreness of his heart, 
that his adversary had written a book, 
as perchance misanthropically wishing 
to indite a review thereof, yet was not 
Satan allowed so far to tempt him as 
to send Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar 
each with an unprinted work in his 
wallet to be submitted to his censure. 
But of this enough. Were I in need 
of other excuse, I might add that I 
write by the express desire of Mr. 
Biglow himself, whose entire winter 
leisure is occupied, as he assures me, 
in answering demands for autographs, 



254 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



a labor exacting enough in itself, and 
egregiously so to him, who, being no 
ready penman, cannot sign so much as 
his name without strange contortions 
of the face (his nose, even, being essen- 
tial to complete success) and painfully 
suppressed Saint-Vitus-dance of every 
muscle in his body. This, with his 
having been put in the Commission of 
the Peace by our excellent Governor 
(O, si sic omnes !) immediately on his 
accession to office, keeps him continu- 
ally employed. Haud inexpertus 
loquor, having for many years written 
myself J. P., and being not seldom ap- 
plied to for specimens of my chirogra- 
phy, a request to which I have some- 
times over weakly assented, believing 
as 1 do that nothing written of set pur- 
pose can properly be called an auto- 
graph, but only those unpremeditated 
sallies and lively runnings which betray 
the fireside Man instead of the hunted 
Notoriety doubling on his pursuers. 
But it is time that I should bethink me 
of St. Austin's prayer, libera me a 
meipso, if I would arrive at the matter 
in hand. 

Moreover, I had yet another reason 
for taking up the pen myself. I am in- 
formed that the Atlantic Monthly is 
mainly indebted for its success to the 
contributions and editorial supervision 
of Dr. Holmes, whose excellent "An- 
nals of America " occupy an honored 
place upon my shelves. The journal 
itself I have never seen ; but if this be 
so, it might seem that the recommen- 
dation of a brother-clergyman (though 
Par magis quam similis) should carry 
a greater weight. I suppose that you 
have a department for historical lucu- 
brations, and should be glad, if deem- 
ed desirable, to forward for publication 
my " Collections for the Antiquities of 
Jaalam," and my (now happily com- 
plete) pedigree of the Wilbur family 
from \Xs/ons et origo, the Wild Boar of 
Ardennes. Withdrawn from the active 
duties of my profession by the settle- 
ment of a colleague-pastor, the Rever- 
end Jeduthun Hitchcock, formerly of 
Brutus Four-Corners, I might find 
time for further contributions to gen- 



eral literature on similar topicks. I 
have made large advances towards a 
completer genealogy of Mrs. Wilbur's 
Jamily, the Pilcoxes, not, if I know 
myself, from any idle vanity, but with 
the sole desire of rendering myself use- 
ful in my day and generation. Nulla 
dies sine lined. ' I inclose a meteoro- 
logical register, a list of the births, 
deaths, and marriages, and a few me- 
morabilia of longevity in Jaalam East 
Parish for the last naif-century. 
Though spared to the unusual period 
of more than eighty years, I find no 
diminution of my faculties or abate- 
ment of my natural vigor, except a 
scarcely sensible decay ot memory and 
a necessity of recurring to younger 
eyesight or spectacles for the finer 
print in Cruden. It would gratify me 
to make some further provision for de- 
clining years from the emoluments of 
my literary labors. I had intended to 
effect an insurance on my life, but was 
deterred therefrom by a circular from 
one of the offices, in which the sudden 
death of so large a proportion of the 
insured was set forth as an inducement, 
that it seemed to me little less than a 
tempting of Providence. Neque in 
summa inopid lev is esse seneclus potest, 
ne sapient i qttidem. 

Thus far concerning Mr. Biglow; 
and so much seemed needful {jbrevis 
esse laboro) by way of preliminary, after 
a silence of fourteen years. He greatly 
fears lest he may in this essay have 
fallen below himself, well knowing that, 
if exercise be dangerous on a full stom- 
ach, no less so is writing on a full repu- 
tation. Beset as he has been on all 
sides, he could not refrain, and would 
only imprecate patience till he shall 
again have "got the hang" (as he calls 
it) of an accomplishment long disused. 
The letter of Mr. Sawin was received 
some time in last J[une, and others have 
followed which will in due season be 
submitted to the publick. How large- 
ly his statements are to be depended 
on, I more than merely dubitate. He 
was always distinguished for a tenden- 
cy to exaggeration , — it might almost be 
qualified by a stronger term. Fortiter 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



255 



mentire, aliquid haret, seemed to be 
his favourite rule of rhetorick. That he 
is actually where he says he is the post- 
mark would seem to confirm ; that he 
was received with the puhhick demon- 
strations he describes would appear 
consonant with what we know of the 
habits of those regions ; but further 
than this I venture not to decide. I 
have sometimes suspected a vein of 
humour in him which leads him to speak 
by contraries ; but since, in the unre- 
strained intercourse of private life, I 
have never observed in him any strik- 
ing powers of invention, I am the more 
willing to put a ceriain qualified faith 
in the incidents and the details of life 
and manners which give to his narra- 
tives some portion of the interest and 
entertainment which characterizes a 
Century Sermon. 

It may be expected of me that I 
should say something to justify myself 
with the world for a seeming_ inconsist- 
ency with my well-known principles in 
allowing my youngest son to raise a 
company for the war, a fact known to 
all through the medium of the publick 
prints. I did reason with the young 
man, but expellas naUircim /urea, 
tanienusque recurrit. Having myself 
been a chaplain in 1S12, I could the 
less wonder that a man of war had 
sprung from my loins. It was, indeed, 
grievous to send my Benjamin, the 
child of my old age ; but after the dis- 
comfiture of Manassas, I with my own 
hands did buckle on his armour, trust- 
ing in the great Comforter and Com- 
mander for strength according to my 
need. For truly the memory of a brave 
son dead in his shroud were a greater 
staff of my declining years than a living 
coward (if those may be said to have 
lived who carry all of themselves into 
the grave with them), though his days 
might be long in the land, and he 
should get much goods. It is not till 
our earthen vessels are broken that we 
find and truly possess the treasure that 
was laid up in them. Migraviin ani- 
mam meant, I have sought refuge in my 
own soul ; nor would I be shamed by 
the heathen comedian with his Ne- 



qnant illud verhtm, bene vult, nisi 
bene facit. During our dark days, I 
read constantly in the inspired book of 
Job, which 1 believe to contain more 
food to maintain the fibre of the soul 
for right living and high thinking than 
all pagan literature together, though I 
would by no means vilipend the study 
of the classicks. There I read that 
Job said in his despair, even as the 
tool saith in his heart there is no God, 
— " The tabernacles of robbers pros- 
per, and they that provoke God are se- 
cure." {Job xii. 6.) But I sought 
farther till I found this Scripture also, 
which I would have those perpend who 
have striven to turn our Israel aside to 
the worship of strange gods : — " If I 
did despise the cause of my man-ser- 
vant or of my maid-servant when they 
contended with me, what then shall I 
do when God riseth up? and when he 
visiteth, what shall I answer him ? " 
{Job xxxi. 13, 14.) On this text I 
preached a discourse on the last day of 
Fasting and Humiliation with general 
acceptance, though there were not 
wanting one or two Laodiceans who 
said that I should have waited till the 
President announced his policy. But 
let us hope and pray, remembering this 
of Saint Gregory, Vult Dens rogari, 
vult cogi, vult quadam importunitate 
vinci. 

We had our first fall of snow on 
Friday last. Frosts have been un- 
usually backward this fall. A singular 
circumstance occurred in this town on 
the 20th October, in the family of Dea- 
con Pelatiah Tinkham. On the pre- 
vious evening, a few moments before 
family-prayers, 

# # # # # 

[The editors of the A tlantic find it 
necessary here to cut short the letter 
of their valued correspondent, which 
seemed calculated rather on the rates 
of longevity in Jaalam than for less 
favored localities. They have every 
encouragement to hope that he will 
write again.] 

With esteem and respect, 
Your obedient servant, 
Homer Wilbur, A. M. 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



It 's some consid'ble of a spell sence 

I hain't writ no letters, 
An' ther' 's gret changes hez took 

place in all polit'cle metters : 
Some canderdates air dead an' gone, 

an' some hez ben defeated, 
Which 'mounts to pooty much the 

same ; fer it 's ben proved repeated 
A betch o' bread thet hain't riz once 

ain't goin' to rise agin, 
An' it 's jest money throwed away to 

put the emptins in : 
But thet 's wut folks wun't never larn ; 

they dunno how to go, 
Arter you want their room, no more 'n 

a bullet-headed beau ; 
Ther' 's oilers chaps a-hangin' roun' 

thet can't see peatime 's past, 
Mis'ble as roosters in a rain, heads 

down an' tails half-mast : 
It ain't disgraceful bein' beat, when a 

holl nation doos it, 
But Chance is like an amberill, — it 

don't take twice to lose it. 



I spose you 're kin' o' cur'ous, now, to 

know why I hain't writ. 
Wal, I 've ben where a litt'ry taste 

don't somehow seem to git 
Th' encouragement a feller 'd think, 

thet 's used to public schools, 
An' where sech things ez paper 'n' ink 

air clean agin the rules : 
A kind o' vicyvarsy house, built dreffle 

strong an' stout, 
So 's 't honest people can't get in, ner 

t'other sort git out, v 
An' with the winders so contrived, 

you 'd prob'ly like the view 
Better alookin' in than out, though it 

seems sing'lar, tu ; 
But then the landlord sets by ye, can't 

bear ye out o' sight, 
And locks ye up ez reg'lar ez an out- 
side door at night. 



This world is awfle contrary : the mpe 

may stretch your neck 
Thet mebby kep' another chap frum 

washin' off a wreck ; 
An' you may see the taters grow in 

one poor feller's patch, 



So small no self-respectin' hen thet 

vallied time 'ould scratch, 
So small the rot can't find 'em out, an' 

then agin, nex' door, 
Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when 

they 're 'most too fat to snore. 
But groutin' ain't no kin' o' use ; an' ef 

the fust throw fails, 
Why, up an' try agin, thet 's all, — the 

coppers ain't all tails ; 
Though I hev seen 'em when I thought 

they hed n't no more head 
Than 'd sarve a nussin' Brigadier thet 

gits some ink to shed. 

When I writ last, I 'd ben turned 
loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp, 

Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you 'd 
took an' dreened his swamp : 

But I ain't o' the meechin' kind, thet 
sets an' thinks fer weeks 

The bottom 's out o' th' univarse coz 
their own gillpot leaks. 

I hed to cross bayous an' criks, (wal, it 
did beat all natur',) 

Upon a kin' o' corderoy, fust log, then 
alligator : 

Luck'ly, the critters warn't sharp-sot ; 
I guess 't wuz overruled 

They 'd done their mornin's marketin' 
an' gut their hunger cooled ; 

Fer missionaries to the Creeks an' run- 
aways are viewed 

By them an' folks ezsent express to be 
their reg'lar food : 

Wutever 't wuz, they laid an' snoozed 
ez peacefully ez sinners, 

Meek ez disgestin' deacons be at ordi- 
nation dinners ; 

Ef any on 'em turned an' snapped, I 
let 'em kin' o' taste 

My live-oak leg, an' so, ye see, ther* 
*varn't no gret o' waste ; 

Fer they found out in quicker time than 
ef they 'd ben to college 

'T warn't heartier food than though 't 
wuz made out o' the tree o' knowl- 
edge. 

But / \.t\\ you my other leg hed larned 
wut pizon-nettle meant, 

An' var'ous other usefle things, afore I 
reached a settlement, 

An' all o' me thet wuz n't sore an' 
sendin' prickles thru me 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 



*57 



Wuz jest the leg I parted with in lickin' 

Montezumy : 
A useiie limb it 's ben to me, an' more 

of a support 
Than wut the other hez ben, — coz I 

dror my pension for 't. 

Wal, I gut in at last where folks wuz 

civerlized an' white, 
Ez I diskivered to my cost afore 

't warn't hardly night ; 
Fer 'z I wuz settin' in the bar a-takin' 

sunthin' hot, 
An' feelin' like a man agin, all over in 

one spot, 
A feller thet sot opposite, arter a squint 

at me, 
Lep up an' drawed his peacemaker, 

an', " Dash it, Sir," suz he, 
" I 'm doubledashed ef you ain't him 

thet stole my yaller chettle, 
(You 're all the stranger thet 's around,) 

so now you 've gut to settle ; 
It ain't no use to argerfy ner try to cut 

up frisky, 
I know ye ez I know the smell of ole 

chain lightnin' whiskey ; 
We 're lor-abidin' folks down here, 

we '11 fix ye so 's 't a bar 
Would n' tech ye with a ten-foot pole ; 

(Jedge, you jest warm the tar;) 
Vou '11 think you'd better ha' gut among 

a tribe o' Mongrel Tartars, 
*Fore we 've done showin' how we raise 

dur Southun prize tar-martyrs ; 
A moultin' fallen cherubim, ef he 

should see ye, 'd snicker, 
Thinkin' he warn't a suckemstance. 

Come, genlemun, le' 's liquor ; 
An', Gin'ral, when you 've mjxed the 

drinks an' chalked 'em up, tote 

roun' 
An' see ef ther' 's a feather-bed (thet 's 

borryable) in town. 
We '11 try ye fair, old Grafted- Leg, an' 

ef the tar wun't stick, 
Th' ain't not a juror here but wut '11 

'quit ye double-quick." 
To cut it short, 1 wun't say sweet, they 

gi' me a good dip, 
(They ain't perfessin? Bahptists here,) 

then give the bed a rip, — 
The jury 'd sot, an' quicker 'n a flash 

they hetched me out, a livin* 
17 



Extemp'ry mammoth turkey-chick fer 

a Fejee Thanksgivin'. 
Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it 's 

nat'ral to suppose, 
When poppy lar enthusiasm hed ma- 
tt ished me sech clo'es ; 
(Ner 't ain't without edvantiges, this 

kin' o' suit, ye see, 
It 's water-proof, an' water 's wut I like 

kep' out o' me ;) 
But nut content with thet, they took a 

kerridge from the fence 
An' rid me roun' to see the place, en- 
tirely free 'f expense, 
With forty-'leven new kines o' sarse 

without no charge acquainted me, 
Gi' me three cheers, an' vowed thet I 

wuz all their fahncy painted me ; 
They treated me to all their eggs ; 

(they keep 'em I should think, 
Fer sech ovations, pooty long, for they 

wuz mos J distinc' ;) 
They starred me thick 'z the Milky- 
Way with indiscrim'nit cherity, 
Fer wut we call reception eggs air sun- 
thin' of a rerity ; 
Green ones is plentifle anough, skurce 

wuth a nigger's getherin', 
But your dead-ripe ones ranges high fer 

treatin' Nothun bretherin ; 
A spotteder, ringstreakeder child the' 

warn't in Uncle Sam's 
Holl farm, — a cross of striped pig an' 

one o' Jacob's lambs ; 
'T wuz Dannil in the lions' den, new 

an' enlarged edition, 
An' everythin' fust-rate o' 'ts kind, the' 

warn't no impersition. 
People 's impulsiver down here than 

wut our folks to home be,^ 
An' kin' o' go it 'ith a resh in raisin' 

Hail Columby : 
Thet 's so : an' they swarmed out like 

bees, for your real Southun men's 
Time isn't o' much more account than 

an ole settin' hen's ; 
(They jest work semioccashnally, or 

else don't work at all, 
An' so their time an' 'tention both air 

at saci'ty's call.) 
Talk about hospatality ! wut Nothun 

town d' ye know 
Would take a totle stranger up an' treat 

him gratis so ? 



258 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



You 'd better b'lieve ther' 's nothin' like 
this spendin' days an' nights 

Along 'ith a dependent race fer civer- 
hzin' whites. 

But this wuz all prelim'nary ; it 's so 

Gran' Jurors here 
Fin' a true bill, a hendier way than 

ourn, an' nut so dear ; 
So arter this they sentenced me, to 

make all tight 'n' snug, 
Afore a reg'lar court o' law, to ten 

years in the Jug. 
I did n' make no gret defence : you 

don't feel much like speakin', 
When, ef you let your clamshells gape, 

a quart o' tar will leak in : 
I hev hearn tell o' winged words, but 

pint o' fact it tethers 
The spoutin' gift to hev your words tu 

thick sot on with feathers, 
An' Choate ner Webster would n't ha' 

made an A i kin' o' speech 
Astride a Southun chestnut horse shar- 
per 'n a baby's screech. 
Two year ago they ketched the thief, 

'n' seein' I wuz innercent, 
They jest uncorked an' le' me run, an' 

in my stid the sinner sent 
To see how he liked pork 'n' pone 

flavored with wa'nut saplin', 
An' nary social priv'ledge but a one- 

hoss, starn-wheel chaplin. 
When I come out, the folks behaved 

mos' gen'manlyan' harnsome ; 
They 'lowed it wouldn't be more 'n 

right, ef I should cuss 'n' darn 

some : 
The Cunnle he apolergized ; suz he, 

"I '11 du wut *s right, 
I '11 give ye settisfection new by shootin' 

ye at sight, 
An' give the nigger (when he 's 

caught), to pay him fer his trickin' 
In gittin' the wrong man took up, a 

most H fired lickin', — 
It 's jest the way with all on 'em, the 

inconsistent critters, 
They 're 'most enough to make a man 

blaspheme his mornin' bitters ; 
I '11 be your frien' thru thick an' thin 

an' in all kines' o' weathers, 
An' all you '11 hev to pay fer 's jest the 

waste o' tar an' feathers : 



A lady owned the bed, ye see, a wid- 

der, tu, Miss Shennon ; 
It wuz her mite ; we would ha' took 

another, ef ther 'd ben one : 
We don't make no charge for the ride 

an' all the other fixins. 
Le' 's liquor ; Gin'ral, you can chalk 

our friend for all the mixins." 
A meetin' then wuz called, where they 

11 Resolved, Thet we respec' 
B. S. Esquire for quallerties o' heart 

an' intellec' 
Peculiar to Columby's sile, an' not to 

no one else's, 
Thet makes European tyrans scringe 

in all their gilded pel'ces, 
An' doos gret honor^to our race an' 

Southun institootions" : 
(I give ye jest the substance o' the 

leadin' resolootions :) 
" Resolved, Thet we revere in him a 

soger 'thout a flor, 
A martyr to the princerples o' libbaty 

an' lor : 
Resolved, Thet other nations all, ef 

sot 'longside o' us, 
For vartoo, larnin', chivverlry, ain't 

noways wuth a cuss." 
They gut up a subscription, tu, but no 

gret come o' thet ; 
I 'xpect in cairin' of it roun' they took 

a leaky hat ; 
Though Southun genelmun ain't slow 

at puttin' down their name, 
(When they can write,) fer in the eend 

it comes to jes' the same, 
Because, ye see, 't 's the fashion here 

to sign an' not to think 
A critter 'd be so sordid ez to ax 'em for 

the chink : 
I did n't call but jest on one, an' he 

drawed toothpick on me, 
An' reckoned he warn't goin' to stan' 

no sech doggauned econ'my ; 
So nothin' more wuz realized, 'ceptin' 

the good-will shown, 
Than eft had ben from fust to last a 

reg'lar Cotton Loan. 
It 's a good way, though, come to 

think, coz ye enjy the sense 
O' lendin' lib'rally to the Lord, an' 

nary red o' 'xpense : 
Sence then I 've gut my name up for a 

gin'rous-hearted man 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



*59 



By jes' subscribtn' right an' left on this 

high-minded plan ; 
I 've gin away my thousans so to every 

Southun sort 
O' missions, colleges, an' sech, ner 

ain't no poorer for 't. 

I warn't so bad off, arter all ; I need n't 

hardly mention 
That Guv'ment owed me quite a pile 

for my arrears o' pension, — 
I mean the poor, weak thing we hed: 

we run a new one now, 
Thet strings a feller with a claim up ta 

the nighes' bough, 
An' prectises the rights o' man, pur- 

tects down-trodden debtors, 
Ner wun't hev creditors about a- 

scrougin' o' their betters : 
Jeff 's gut the last idees ther' is, 

poscrip', fourteenth edition, 
He knows it takes some enterprise to 

run an oppersition ; 
Ourn ]s the fust thru-by-daylight train, 

with all ou'doors for deepot ; 
Yourn goes so slow you 'd think 't wuz 

drawed by a las' cent'ry teapot ; — 
Wal, I gut all on 't paid in gold afore 

our State seceded, 
An' done wal, for Confed'rit bonds 

warn't jest the cheese I needed : 
Nut but wut they 're ez good ez gold, 

but then it 's hard a-breakin' on'em, 
An' ignorant folks is oilers sot an' 

wun't git used to takin' on 'em ; 
They 're wuth ez much ez wut they wuz 

afore ole Mem'nger signed 'em, 
An' go off middlin' wal for drinks, 

when ther' 's a knife behind 'em ; 
We du miss silver, jes' fer thet an' 

ridin' in a bus, 
Now we 've shook off the desputs thet 

wuz suckin' at our pus ; 
An' it 's because the South 's so rich ; 

't wuz nat'ral to expec' 
Supplies o' change wuz jes' the things 

we should n't recollec' ; 
We 'd ough' to ha' thought aforehan', 

though, o' thet good rule o' Crock- 
ett's, 
For 't 's tiresome cairin' cotton-bales 

an' niggers in your pockets, 
Ner 't ain't quite hendy to pass off one 

o' your six-foot Guineas 



An' git your halves an' quarters back 

in gals an' pickaninnies : 
Wal, 't ain't quite all a feller 'd ax, but 

then ther' 's this to say, 
It 's on'y jest among ourselves thet we 

expec' to pay ; 
Our system would ha' caird us thru in 

any Bible cent'ry, 
'Fore this onscripterl plan come up o* 

books by double entry ; 
We go the patriarkle here out o' all 

sight an' hearin', 
For Jacob warn't a suckemstance to 

Jeff at financierin' ; 
He never 'd thought o' borryin' from 

Esau like all nater 
An' then cornfiscatin' all debts to sech 

a small pertater ; 
There 's p'litickle econ'my, now, com- 
bined 'ith morril beauty 
Thet saycrifices privit eends (your 

in'my's, tu) to dooty ! 
Wy, Jeff 'd ha' gin him five an' won 

his eye-teeth 'fore heknowed it, 
An', stid o' wastin' pottage, he 'd ha* 

eat it up an' owed it. 
But I wuz goin' on to say how I come 

here to dwall ; — 
'Nough said, thet, arter lookin' roun', 

I liked the place so wal, 
Where niggers doos a double good, 

with us atop to stiddy 'em, 
By bein' proofs o' prophecy an' suckle- 

atin' medium, 
Where a man 's sunthin' coz he 's 

white, an' whiskey 's cheap ez fleas, 
An' the financial pollercy jes' sooted my 

idees, 
Thet I friz down right where I wuz, 

merried the Widder Shennon, 
(Her thirds wuz part in cotton-land, 

part in the curse o' Canaan,) 
An' here I be ez lively ez a chipmunk 

on a wall, 
With nothin' to feel riled about much 

later 'n £ddam's fall. 



Ez fur ez human foresight goes, we 

made art even trade : 
She gut an overseer, an' I a fem'ly 

ready-made, 
(The youngest on 'em 's 'mos' growed 

up,) rugged an' spry ez weazles, 



s6o 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



So *s 't ther' 's no resk o' doctors' bills 

fer hoopin'-cough an' measles. 
Our farm 'sat Turkey-Buzzard Roost, 

Little Big Boosy River, 
Wal located in allrespex, — fer 't ain't 

the chills 'n' fever 
Thet makes my writin' seem to squirm ; 

a Southuner 'd allow I 'd 
Some call to shake, for I 've jest hed 

to melleranew cowhide. 
Miss S. is all 'f a lady ; th' ain't no 

better on Big Boosy 
Ner one with more accomplishmunts 

'twixt here an' Tuscaloosy ; 
She 's an F. F., the tallest kind, an' 

prouder 'n the Gran' Turk, 
An' never hed a relative thet done a 

stroke o' work ; 
Hern ain't a scrimpin' fem'ly sech ez 

yon git up Down East, 
Th' ain't a growed member on 't but 

owes his thousuns et the least : 
She is some old ; but then agin ther' 's 

drawbacks in my sheer : 
Wut 's left o' me ain't more 'n enough 

to make a Brigadier : 
Wust is, thet she hez tantrums ; she 's 

like Seth Moody's gun 
(Him thet wuz nicknamed frum his 

limp Ole Dot an' Kerry One) ; 
He 'd left her loaded up a spell, an' hed 

to git her clear, 
So he onhitched, — Jeerusalem ! the 

middle o' last year 
Wuz right nex' door compared to 

where she kicked the critter tu 
(Though jest where he brought up wuz 

wut no human never knew) ; 
His brother Asaph picked her up an' 

tied her to a tree, 
An' then she kicked an hour V a half 

afore she 'd let it be : 
Wal, Miss S. doos hev cuttins-up an' 

pourins-out o' vials, 
But then she hez her widder's thirds, 

an' all on us hez trials. 
My objec', though, in writin' now 

warn't to allude to sech, 
But to another suckemstance more 

dellykit to tech, — 
I want thet you should grad'lly break 

my merriage to Jerushy, 
An' there 's a heap of argymunts thet 's 

emple to indooce ye : 



Fust place, State's Prison, — wal, it 's 

true it warn't fer crime, o' course, 
But then it 's jest the same fer her in 

gittin' a disvorce ; 
Nex' place, my State 's secedin' out hez 

leg'lly lef ' me free 
To merry any one I please, pervidin' 

it 's a she ; 
Fin'lly, I never wun't come back, she 

need n't hev no fear on 't, 
But then it 's wal to fix things right fer 

fear Miss S. should hear on 't ; 
Lastly, I 've gut religion South, an' 

Rushy she 's a pagan 
Thet sets by th' graven imiges o' the 

gret Nothun Dagon ; 
(Now I hain't seen one in six munts, 

for, sence our Treashry Loan, 
Though yaller boys is thick anough, 

eagles hez kind o' flown ;) 
An' ef J wants a stronger pint than 

them thet I hev stated, 
Wy, she 's an aliun in'my now, an' 

I 've been cornfiscated, — 
For sence we 've entered on th' estate 

o' the late nayshnul eagle, 
She hain't no kin' o' right but jes' wut 

I allow ez legle : 
Wut doos Secedin' mean, eft ain't thet 

nat'rul rights hez riz, 'n' 
Thet wut is mine 's my own, but wut's 

another man's ain't his'n ? 



Besides, I could n't do no else ; Miss 

S. suz she to me, 
"You 've sheered my bed," Tthet 's 

when I paid my interduction fee 
To Southun rites,] "an' kep' your 

sheer," [wal, I allow it sticked 
So 's 't I wuz most six weeks in jail 

afore I gut me picked,] 
" Ner never paid no demmiges ; but 

thet wun't do no harm, 
Pervidin' thet you'll ondertake to 

oversee the farm ; 
(My eldes' boy 's so took up, wut with 

the Ringtail Rangers 
An' settin' in the Jestice-Court for wel- 

comin' o' strangers" ;) 
[He sot on me ;] " an' so, ef you '11 jest 

ondertake the care 
Upon a mod'rit sellery, we'll up an' 

call it square ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 



261 



But ef you can't conclude," suz she, 

an' give a kin' o' grin, 
" Wy, the Gran' Jurymen, I 'xpect, '11 

hev to set agin." 
Thet 's the way metters stood at fust ; 

now wut wuz I to du, 
But jes' to make the best on 't an' off 

coat an' buckle tu ? 
Ther' ain't a livin' man thet finds an 

income necessarier 
Than me, — bimeby I '11 tell ye how I 

fin'lly come to merry her. 

She hed another motive, tu : I mention 

of it here 
T' encourage lads thet 's growin' up to 

study V persevere, 
An' show 'em how much better 't pays 

to mind their winter-schoolin' 
Than to go off on benders 'n' sech, an' 

waste their time in foolin' ; 
Eft warn't for studyin' evenins, I 

never 'd ha' been here 
An orn'ment o' saciety, in my appro- 
prut spear : 
She wanted somebody, ye see, o' taste 

an' cultivation, 
To talk along o' preachers when they 

stopt to the plantation ; 
For folks in Dixie th't read an' rite, 

onless it is by jarks, 
Is skurce ez wut they wuz among th' 

oridgenle patriarchs ; 
To fit a feller f wut they call the soshle 

higherarchy, 
All thet you 've gut to know is jes' be- 

yund an evrage darky ; 
Schoolin' 's wut they can't seem to 

stan', they 're tu consarned high- 
pressure, 
An' knowin' t' much might spile a boy 

for bein' a Secesher. 
We hain't no settled preachin' here, 

ner ministeril taxes ; 
The min'ster's only settlement 's the 

carpet-bag he packs his 
Razor an' soap-brush intu, with his 

hymbook an' his Bible, — 
But they du preach, I swan to man, it's 

puP kly indescrib'le ! 
They go it like an Ericsson's ten-hoss- 

power coleric ingine, 
An' make Ole Split-Foot winch an' 

squirm, for all he 's used to singe- 
in' ; 



Hawkins's whetstone ain't a pinch o' 

primin' to the innards 
Tq hearin' on 'em put free grace t' a lot 

o' tough old sinhards ! 
Bu£ I must eend this letter now : 'fore 

*long 1 '11 send a fresh un ; 
I 've lots o' things to write about, per- 

ticklerly Seceshun : 
I 'm called off now to mission-work, to 

let aleetle law in 
To Cynthy's hide : an' so, till death, 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 



No. II. 

MASON AND SLIDELL : A 
YANKEE IDYLL. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. . 

JAALAM, 6th Jan., 1862. 

Gentlemen, — I was highly gratified 
by the insertion of a portion of my let- 
ter in the last number of your valua- 
ble and entertaining Miscellany, though 
in a type which rendered its substance 
inaccessible even to the beautiful new 
spectacles presented to me by a Com- 
mittee of the Parish on New Year's 
Day. I trust that I was able to bear 
your very considerable abridgment of 
my lucubrations with a spirit becoming 
a Christian. My third granddaughter, 
Rebekah, aged fourteen years, and 
whom I have trained to read slowly and 
with proper emphasis (a practice too 
much neglected in our modern systems 
of education), read aloud to me the ex- 
cellent essay upon " Old Age," the au- 
thour of which I cannot help suspecting 
to be a young man who has never yet 
known what it was to have snow {cam- 
ties morosa) upon his own roof. Dis- 
solve frigus, large superfoco ligna re- 
ponens, is a rule for the young, whose 
wood-pile is yet abundant for such 
cheerful lenitives. A good life behind 
him is the best thing to keep an old 
man's shoulders from shivering at every 
breath of sorrow or ill-fortune. But 



26a 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



methinks it were easier for an old man 
to feel the disadvantages of youth than 
the advantages of age. Of these lat- 
ter I reckon one of the chiefest to be 
this ; that we attach a less inordinate 
value to our own productions, and, 
distrusting daily more and more our 
own wisdom (with the conceit whereof 
at twenty we wrap ourselves away from 
knowledge as with a garment), do rec- 
oncile ourselves with the wisdom of 
God. I could have wished, indeed, 
that room might have been made for 
the residue of the anecdote relating to 
Deacon Tinkham, which would not 
only have gratified a natural curiosity 
on the part of the publick (as I have 
reason to know from several letters of 
inquiry already received), but would 
also, as I think, have largely increased 
the circulation of your Magazine in 
this town. Nihil humani alienum % 
there is a curiosity about the affairs of 
our neighbours which is not only par- 
donable, but even commendable. But 
I shall abide a more fitting season. 

As touching the following literary 
effort of Esquire Biglow, much might 
be profitably said on the topick of 
Idyllick and Pastoral Poetry, and con- 
cerning the proper distinctions to be 
made between them, from Theocritus, 
the inventor of the former, to Collins, 
the latest authour I know of who has 
emulated the classicks in the latter 
style But in the time of Civil War 
worthy a Milton to defend and a Lucan 
to sing, it may be reasonably doubted 
whether the publick, never too studious 
of serious instruction, might not consid- 
er other objects more deserving of pres- 
ent attention. Concerning the title of 
Idyll, which Mr. Biglow has adooted 
at my suggestion, it may not be improp- 
er to animadvert, that the name prop- 
erly signifies a poem somewhat rustick 
in phrase (for, though the learned are 
not agreed as to the particular dialect 
employed by Theocritus, they are uni- 
yersanimous both as to its rusticity and 
its capacity of rising now and then to 
the level of more elevated sentiments 
and expressions), while it is also de- 
scriptive of real scenery and manners. 



Yet it must be admited that the pro- 
duction now in question (which here 
and there bears perhaps too plainly the 
marks of my correcting hand) does par- 
take of the nature of a Pastoral, inas- 
much as the interlocutors therein are 
purely imaginary beings, and the whole 
is little better than kclttvov <tki6l<; ovap. 
The plot was, as I believe, suggested 
by the " Twa Briggs " of Robert Burns, 
a Scottish poet of the last century, as 
that found its prototype in the " Mutu- 
al Complaint of Plainstanes and Cau- 
sey " by Fergusson, though the metre 
of this latter be different by a foot in 
each verse. I reminded my talented 
young parishioner and friend that Con- 
cord Bridge had long since yielded to 
the edacious tooth of Time. But he 
answered me to this effect : that there 
was no greater mistake of an authour 
than to suppose the reader had no fancy 
of his own ; that, if once that faculty 
was to be called into activity, it were 
better to be in for the whole sheep than 
the shoulder ; and that he knew Con- 
cord like a book, — an expression 
questionable in propriety, since there 
are few things with which he is not 
more familiar than with the printed 
page. In proof of what he affirmed, he 
showed me some verses which with 
others he had stricken out as too much 
delaying the action, but which I com- 
municate in this place because thev 
rightly define " punkin-seed " (which 
Mr. Bartlett would have a kind of 
perch, — a creature to which I have 
found a rod or pole not to be so easily 
equivalent in our inland waters as in 
the books of arithmetic), and because 
it conveys an eulogium on the worthy 
son of an excellent father, with whose 
acquaintance {eheu, fugaces annil) I 
was formerly honoured. 



" But nowadays the Bridge ain't wut they 

show, 
So much ez Em'son, Hawthorne, an' Tho- 

reau. 
I know the village, though ; was sent there 

once 
A-schoolin', 'cause to home I played the 

dunce ; 
An' I 've ben sence a-visitin' the Jedge^ 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



263 



Whose garding whispers with the river's 

edge, 
Where 1 va sot mornin's lazy as the bream, 
Whose on'y business is to head up-stream, 
(We call 'em punkin-seed,) or else in chat 
Along 'th the Jedge, who covers with his hat 
More wit an' gumption an' shrewd Yankee 

sense 
Than there is mosses on anole stone fence." 

Concerning the subject-matter of the 
verses, I have not the leisure at pres- 
ent to write so fully as I could wish, 
my time being occupied with the prep- 
aration of a discourse for the forth- 
coming bi-centenary celebration of the 
first settlement of Jaalam East Parish. 
It may gratify the publick interest to 
mention the circumstance, that my in- 
vestigations to this end have enabled 
me to verify the fact (of much historick 
importance, and hitherto hotly debated) 
that Shearjashub Tarbox was the first 
child of white parentage born in this 
town, being named in his father's will 
under date August 7th, or 9th, 1662. It 
is well known that those who advocate 
the claims of Mehetable Goings are 
unable to find any trace of her existence 
prior to October of that year. As re- 
spects the settlement of the Mason and 
Slidell question, Mr. Biglow has not 
incorrectly stated the popular sentiment, 
so far as I can judge by its expression 
in this locality. For myself, I feel 
more sorrow than resentment : for I am 
old enough to have heard those talk of 
England who still, even after the un- 
happy estrangement, could not un- 
. school their lips from calling her the 
Mother-Country. But England has 
insisted on ripping up old wounds, and 
has undone the healing work of fifty 
years ; for nations do not reason, they 
only feel, and the spretce injiiriaform.ee 
rankles in their minds as bitterly as in 
that of a woman. And because this is 
so, I feel the more satisfaction that our 
Government has acted (as all Govern- 
ments should, standing as they do be- 
tween the people and their passions) as 
if it had arrived at years of discretion. 
There are three short and simple words, 
the hardest of all to pronounce in any 
language (and I suspect they were no 
easier before the confusion of tongues), 



but which no man or nation that cannot 
utter can claim to have arrived at man- 
hood. Those words are, / was wrong ; 
and I am proud that, while England 
played the boy, our rulers had strength 
enough from the People below and 
wisdom enough from God above to 
quit themselves like men. 

The sore points on both sides have 
been skilfully exasperated by interest- 
ed and unscrupulous persons, who saw 
in a war between the two countries the 
only hope of profitable return for 
their investment in Confederate stock, 
whether political or financial. The al- 
ways supercilious, often insulting, and 
sometimes even brutal tone of British 
journals and publick men has certainly 
not tended to soothe whatever resent- 
ment might exist in America. 

" Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 
But why did you kick me down stairs ? " 

We have no reason to complain that 
England, as a necessary consequence 
of her clubs, has become a great society 
for the minding of other people's busi- 
ness, and we can smile good-naturedly 
when she lectures other nations on the 
sins of arrogance and conceit ; but we 
may justly consider it a breach of the 
political convenances which are expect- 
ed to regulate the intercourse of one 
well-bred government with another, 
when men holding places in the minis- 
try allow themselves to dictate our do- 
mestic policy, to instruct us in our duty, 
and to stigmatize as unholy a war for 
the rescue of whatever a high-minded 
people should hold most vital and most 
sacred. Was it in good taste, that I 
may use the mildest term, for Earl 
Russell to expound our own Constitu- 
tion to President Lincoln, or to make a 
new and fallacious application of an old 
phrase for our benefit, and tell us that 
the Rebels were fighting for indepen- 
dence and we for empire? As if all 
wars for independence were by nature 
just and deserving of sympathy, and 
all wars for empire ignoble and worthy 
only of reprobation, or as if these easy 
phrases in any way characterized this 
terrible struggle, — terrible not so truly 



264 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 



in any superficial sense, as from the 
essential and deadly enmity of the prin- 
ciples that underlie it. His Lordship's 
bit of borrowed rhetoric would justify 
Smith O'Brien, Nana Sahib, and the 
Maori chieftains, while it would con- 
demn nearly every war in which Eng- 
land has ever been engaged. Was it 
so very presumptuous in us to think 
that it would be decorous in English 
statesmen if they spared time enough to 
acquire some kind of knowledge, though 
of the most elementary kind, in regard 
to this country and the questions at 
issue here, before they pronounced so 
off-hand a judgment ? Or is political 
information expected to come Dogberry- 
fashion in England, like reading and 
writing, by nature ? 

And now all respectable England is 
wondering at our irritability, and sees a 
quite satisfactory explanation of it in 
our national vanity. Suave fttari 
■magno, it is pleasant, sitting in the 
easy-chairs of Downing Street, to sprin- 
kle pepper on the raw wounds of a 
kindred people struggling for life, and 
philosophical to find in self-conceit the 
cause of our instinctive resentment. 
Surely we were of all nations the least 
liable to any temptation of vanity at a 
time when the gravest anxiety and the 
keenest sorrow were never absent from 
our hearts. Nor is conceit the exclu- 
sive attribute of any one nation. The 
earliest of English travellers, Sir John 
Mandeville, took a less provincial view 
of the matter when he said, " For fro 
what partie of the erthe that men 
duellen, other aboven or beneathen, it 
semethe alweys to hem that duellen 
that thei gon more righte than any 
other folke." The English have al- 
ways had their fair share of this amia- 
ble quality. We may say of them still, 
as the authour of the Lettres Cabalis- 
tiques said of them more than a century 
ago, " Ces derniers disent nature lle- 
tnent qu'il n*y a qu'eux qui soient es- 
timates :" And, as he also says, 
" jfaimerois presque autant tomber 
entre les mains (Tun Inq7iisiteur que 
(fun A nglois qui me fait sentir sans 
ccsse combien il s'estime plus que moi> 



et qui ne daigne me parler que pour 
injur ier ma Nation et pour m' ennuyer 
du recit des grandes qualites de la 
sienne." Of this Bull we may safely 
say with Horace, habetfcenitm in cor- 
nu. What we felt to be especially in- 
sulting was the quiet assumption that 
the descendants of men who left the 
Old World for the sake of principle, 
and who had made the wilderness into 
a New World patterned after an Idea, 
could not possibly be susceptible of a 
generous or lofty sentiment, could have 
no feeling of nationality deeper than 
that of a tradesman for his shop. One 
would have thought, in listening to 
England, that we were presumptuous 
in fancying that we were a nation at all, 
or had any other principle of union 
than that of booths at a fair, where 
there is no higher notion of govern- 
ment than the constable, or better 
image of God than that stamped upon 
the current coin. 

It is time for Englishmen to con- 
sider whether there was nothing in the 
spirit of their press and of their lead- 
ing public men calculated to rouse a 
just indignation, and to cause a perma- 
nent estrangement on the part of any 
nation capable of self-respect, and sen- 
sitively jealous, as ours then was, of 
foreign interference. Was there noth- 
ing in the indecent haste with which bel- 
ligerent rights were conceded to the 
Rebels, nothing in the abrupt tone as- 
sumed in the Trent case, nothing in the 
fitting out of Confederate privateers, 
that might stir the blood of a people 
already overcharged with doubt, sus- 
picion, and terrible responsibility ? The 
laity in any country do not stop to con- 
sider points of law, but they have an 
instinctive appreciation of the animus 
that actuates the policy of a foreign 
nation ; and in our own case they re- 
membered that the British authorities 
in Canada did not wait till diplomacy 
could send home to England for her 
slow official tinder box to fire the " Car- 
oline." Add to this, what every sen- 
sible American knew, that the moral 
support of England was equal to an 
army of two hundred thousand men to 



THE BIGLOJV PAPEKS. 



265 



the Rebels, while it insured us another 
year or two of exhausting war. It was 
not so much the spite of her words 
(though the time might have been 
more tastefully chosen) as the actual 
power for evil in them that we felt as a 
deadly wrong. Perhaps the most im- 
mediate and efficient cause of mere ir- 
ritation was the sudden and unaccount- 
able change of manner on the other 
side of the water. Only six months 
before, the Prince of Wales had come 
over to call us cousins ; and every- 
where it was nothing but "our Amer- 
ican brethren," that great offshoot of 
British institutions in the New World, 
so almost identical with them in laws, 
language, and literature, — this last of 
the alliterative compliments being so 
bitterly true, that perhaps it will not be 
retracted even now. To this outburst 
of long-repressed affection we respond- 
ed with genuine warmth, if with some- 
thing of the awkwardness of a poor 
relation bewildered with the sudden 
tightening of the ties of consanguinity 
when it is rumored that he has come 
into a large estate. Then came the 
Rebellion, and, presto I a flaw in our 
titles was discovered, the plate we were 
promised at the family table is flung 
at our head, and we were again the 
scum of creation, intolerably vulgar, at 
once cowardly and overbearing, — no 
relations of theirs, after all, but a dreggy 
hybrid of the basest bloods of Europe. 
Panurge was not quicker to call Friar 
John his former friend I cannot help 
thinking of Walter Mapes's jingling 
paraphase of Petronius, — 
'* Dumraodo sim splendidis vestibus ornatus, 
Et multa familia sim circumvallatus, 
Prudens sum et sapiens et morigeratus, 
Et tuus nepos sum et tu meus cognatus," — 

which I may freely render thus : — 

So long as I was prosperous, I 'd dinners by 
the dozen, 

Was well-bred, witty, virtuous, and every- 
body's cousin ; 

If luck should turn, as well she may, her 
fancy is so flexile, 

Will virtue, cousinship, and all return with 
her from exile? 

There was nothing in all this to ex- 
asperate a philosopher, much to make 



him smile rather ; but the earth's sur- 
face is not chiefly inhabited by philos- 
ophers, and I revive the recollection of 
it now in perfect good-humour, merely 
by way of suggesting to our ci-davant 
British cousins, that it would have been 
easier for them to hold their tongues 
than for us to keep our tempers under 
the circumstances. 

The English Cabinet made a blun- 
der, unquestionably, in taking it so 
hastily for granted that the United 
States had fallen forever from their 
position as a first-rate power, and it 
was natural that they should vent a lit- 
tle of their vexation on the people 
whose inexplicable obstinacy in main- 
taining freedom and order, and in re- 
sisting degradation, was likely to con- 
vict them of their mistake. But if 
bearing a grudge be the sure mark of a 
small mind in the individual, can it be 
a proof of high spirit in a nation ? If 
the result of the present estrangement 
between the two countries shall be to 
make us more independent of British 
twaddle (Indomito nee dira ferens 
stipendiz Tauro), so much the better ; 
but if it is to make us insensible to the 
value of British opinion, it matters 
where it gives us the judgment of an 
impartial and cultivated outsider, if we 
are to shut ourselves out from the ad- 
vantages of English culture, the loss 
will be ours, and not theirs. Because 
the door of the old homestead has been 
once slammed in our faces, shall we 
in a huff reject all future advances of 
conciliation, and cut ourselves foolishly 
off from any share in the humanizing 
influences of the place, with its ineffa- 
ble riches of association, its heirlooms 
of immemorial culture, its historic 
monuments, ours no less than theirs, 
its noble gallery of ancestral portraits ? 
We have only to succeed, and England 
will not only respect, but, for the first 
time, begin to understand us. And 
let us not, in our justifiable indignation 
at wanton insult, forget that England is 
not the England only of snobs who 
dread the democracy they do not com- 
prehend, but the England of history, of 
heroes, statesmen, and poets, whose 



266 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



names are dear, and their influence as 
salutary to us as to her. 

Let us strengthen the hands of those 
in authority over us, and curb our own 
tongues, remembering that General 
Wait commonly proves in the end more 
than a match for General Headlong, 
and that the Good Book ascribes safety 
to a multitude, indeed, but not to a mob, 
of counsellours. Let us remember and 
perpend the words of Paulus Emilius 
to the people of Rome ; that, " if they 
judged they could manage the war to 
more advantage by any o her, he would 
willing yield up his charge ; but if they 
confided in him, they were not to make 
themselves his colleagues in his office, 
or raise reports, or criticise his ac- 
tions, but, without talking, supply him 
with means and assistance necessary 
to the carrying on of the war ; for, if 
they proposed to command their own 
commander, they 'would render this 
expedition more ridiculous than the 
former." {Vide Plutarchum in Vita 
P. E.) Let us also not forget what the 
same excellent authour says concern- 
ing Perseus's fear of spending money, 
and not permit the covetousness of 
Brother Jonathan to be the good for- 
tune of Jefferson Davis. For my own 
part, till I am ready to admit the Com- 
mander-in-Chief to' my pulpit, I shall 
abstain from planning his battles. If 
courage be the sword, yet is patience 
the armour of a nation ; and in our de- 
sire for peace, let us never be will- 
ing to surrender the Constitution be- 
queathed us by fathers at least as wise 
as ourselves (even with Jefferson Davis 
to help us), and, with those degenerate 
Romans, tuta et presentia quam Vetera 
et periculosa malle. 

And not only should we bridle our 
own tongues, but the pens of others, 
•which are swift to convey useful intel- 
ligence to the enemy. This is no new 
inconvenience ; for, under date, 3d 
June, 1745, General Pepperell wrote 
thus to Governor Shirley from Louis- 
bourg : — '* What your Excellency ob- 
serves of the army's being made ac- 
quainted with any plans proposed, un- 
til ready to be put in execution y has 



always been disagreeable to me, and 
I have given many cautions relating to 
it. But when your Excellency con- 
siders that our Council of IVar con- 
sists of more than twenty members, 
1 am persuaded you will think it im- 
possible for me to hinder it, if any of 
them will persist in communicating to 
inferior officers and soldiers what ought 
to be kept secret. I am 4nformed that 
the Boston newspapers are filled with 
paragraphs from private letters relating 
to the expedition. Will your Excellency 
permit me to say I think it may be of 
ill consequence ? Would it not be con- 
venient, if your Excellency should for- 
bid the Printers' inserting such news? " 
Verily, if tempora mutantur, we may 
question the et nos mutamur in illis ; 
and if tongues be leaky, it will need all 
hands at the pumps to save the Ship 
of State. Our history dotes and re- 
peats itself. If Sassycus (rather than 
Alcibiades) find a parallel in Beaure- 
gard, so Weakwash, as he is called by 
the brave Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, 
need not seek far among our own 
Sachems for his antitype. 
With respect, 

Your obt humble servt, 

Homer Wilbur, A. M. 



I love to start out arter night 's begun, 
An' all the chores about the farm are 

done, 
The critters milked an' foddered, gates 

shet fast, 
Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper 

past, 
An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene 

lamp, — 
I love, I say, to start upon a tramp, 
To shake the kinkles out o' back an* 

legs, 
An' kind o' rack my life off from the 

dregs 
Thet 's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch 
Of folks thet foller in one rut too 

much : 
Hard work is good an' wholesome, 

past all doubt ; 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



267 



But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuck- 
ered out. 
Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you 

know, 
There 's certin spots where I like best 

to go : 
The Concord road, for instance, (I, for 

one, 
Most gin'lly oilers call it John Bull's 

Bun,) 
The field o' Lexin'ton where England 

tried 
The fastest colours thet she ever dyed, 
Au'Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when 

he came, 
Found was the bee-line track to heaven 

an' fame, 
Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul 
Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so 's to 

save the toll. 

They 're 'most too fur away, take too 

much time 
To visit oPen, ef it ain't in rhyme ; 
But the 's a walk thet 's hendier, a 

sight, 
An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's 

night, — 
I mean the round whale's-back o' Pros- 
pect Hill. 
I love to Titer there while night grows 

still, 
An' in the twinklin' villages about, 
Fust here, then there, the well-saved 

lights goes out, 
An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false 

alarms, 
Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy 

farms, 
Where some wise rooster (men act jest 

thet way) 
Stands to 't thet moon-rise is the break 

o' day : 
(So Mister Seward sticks a three- 
months' pin 
Where the war 'd oughto eend, then 

tries agin ; 
My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 't is 

to crow : 
Don't never prophesy, — onless ye 

know.) 
I love to muse there till it kind o' seems 
Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in 

dreams ; 



The northwest wind thet twitches at 
my baird 

Blows out o' sturdier days not easy 
scared, 

An' the same moon thet this Decem- 
ber shines 

Starts out the tents an' booths o' Put- 
nam's lines ; 

The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet 
runs, 

Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts 
o' guns ; 

Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' 
light, 

Along the firelock won at Concord 
, Fi S l ?t, 

An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now 
nigh, 

Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the 
low reply. 

Ez I was settin* so, it warn't long 

sence, 
Mixin' the puffict with the present 

tense, 
I heerd two voices som'ers in the air, 
Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell 

where : 
Voices I call 'em : 't was a kind o' 

sough 
Like pine-trees thet the wind 's 

ageth'rin' through ; 
An', fact, I thought it was the wind a 

spell, 
Then some misdoubted, could n't iairly 

tell, 
Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold 

an eel, 
I knowed, an' did n't, — fin'lly seemed 

to feel 
'T was Concord Bridge a talkin' off to 

kill 
With the Stone Spike thet 's druv thru 

Bunker Hill ; 
Whether 'twas so, or ef I on'y dreamed, 
I could n't say ; I tell it ez it seemed. 

THE BRIDGE. 

Wal, neighbor, tell us wut 's turned up 
thet 's new? 

You 're younger 'n I be, — nigher Bos- 
ton, tu : 

An' down to Boston, ef you take their 
showin, 



265 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Wut they don't know ain't hardly 

wuth the knowin'. 
There 's sunthiri goin' on, I know : 

las' night 
The British sogers killed in our gret 

fight 
(Nigh fifty year they hed n't stirred 

nor spoke) 
Made sech a coil you 'd thought a dam 

hed broke : 
Why, one he up an' beat a revellee 
With his own crossbones on a holler 

tree, 
Till all the graveyards swarmed out 

like a hive 
With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy- 
five. 
Wut is the news ? 'T ain't good, or 

they 'd be cheerin'. 
Speak slow an' clear, for I 'm some 

hard o' hearin'. 

THE MONIMENT. 

I don't know hardly ef it's good or 
bad, 

THE BRIDGE. 

At wust, it can't be wus than wut we 've 
had. 

THE MONIMENT. 

You know them envys thet the Rebbles 

sent, 
An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the 

Trent? 

THE BRIDGE. 

Wut ! they ha'n't hanged 'em ? Then 

their wits is gone ! 
Thet 's the sure way to make a goose a 

swan ! 

THE MONIMENT. 

No : England she would hev 'em, Fee, 

Paw, Fum I 
(Ez though she hed n't fools enough to 

home,) 
So they 've returned 'em 

THE BRIDGE. 

Hev they ? Wal, by heaven, 
Thet 's the wust news I 've heerd sence 
Seventy-seven ! 



By George, I meant to say, though I 

declare 
It 's 'most enough to make a deacon 

swear. 

THE MONIMENT. 

Now don't go off half-cock : folks never 
gains 

By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains. 

Come, neighbor, you don't under- 
stand 

THE BRIDGE. 

How ? Hey ? 
Not understand ? Why, wut 's to ben- 
der, pray ? 
Must I go huntin' round to find a chap 
To tell me when my face hez hed a 
slap ? 

THE MONIMENT. 

See here : the British they found out a 

flaw 
In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law : 
(They make all laws, you know, an' so, 

o' course, 
It 's nateral they should understan' 

their force :) 
He 'd oughto took the vessel into port, 
An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court ; 
She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu, 
An' thet, they say, hez changed the 

pint o' view, 
Coz the old practice, bein' meant fof 

sails, 
Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' fails ; 
You may take out despatches, but yoii 

mus' n't 
Take nary man 

THE BRIDGE. 

You mean to say, you dus' n't ! 
Changed pint o' view ! No, no, — it 's 

overboard 
With law an' gospel, when their ox is 

gored ! 
I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' 

land, 
Hez oilers ben, " / *ve gut the heaviest 

handy 
Take nary man ? Fine preachin' from 

her lips ! 
Why, she hez taken hunderds from our 

ships, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



269 



An' would jgin, an' swear she had a 

right to, 
Ef we warn't strong enough to be per- 

lite to. 
Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind, 
England doos make the most on- 
pleasant kind : 
It 's you 're the sinner oilers, she 's the 

saint ; 
Wut 's good 's all English, all thet 

isn't ain't ; 
Wut profits her is oilers right an' just, 
An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you 

must ; 
She 's praised herself ontil she fairly 

thinks 
There ain't no light in Natur when she 

winks ; 
Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in 

her pus ? 
Could the world stir 'thout she went, 

tu, ez nus ? 
She ain't like other mortals, thet 's a 

fact: 
She never stopped the habus-corpus 

act, 
Nor specie payments, nor she never yet 
Cut down the int'rest on her public 

debt; 
She don't put down rebellions, lets 'em 

breed, 
An' 's oilers willin' Ireland should 

secede ; 
Sh« 's all thet 's honest, honnable, an' 

fair, 
An' when the vartoos died they made 

her heir. 

THE MONIMENT. 

Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make 

a right ; 
Ef we're mistaken, own up, an' don't 

fight: 
For gracious' sake, ha'n't we enough 

to du 
'Thout gettin' up a fight with England, 

tu? 
She thinks we 're rabble-rid 

THE BRIDGE. 

An' so we can't 
Distinguish 'twixt You ought n't an' 

You shcfritl 
She jedges by herself; she 's no idear 



How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their 

fair sheer : 
The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain 's a 

steeple, — 
Her People 's turned to Mob, our Mob 

's turned People. 

THE MONIMENT. 

She 's riled jes' now 

THE BRIDGE. 

Plain proof her cause ain't strong, — 
The one thet fust gits mad 's 'most oilers 

wrong. 
Why, sence she helped in lickin' Nap 

the Fust, 
An' pricked a bubble jest agoin' to 

bust, 
With Rooshy, Prooshy, Austry, all 

asistin', 
Th' aint nut a face but wut she 's shook 

her fist in, 
Ez though she done it all, an' ten times 

more, 
An' nothiu' never hed gut done afore, 
Nor never could agin', 'thout she wuz 

spliced 
On to one eend an' gin th' old airth a 

hoist. 
She is some punkins, thet I wun't deny, 
(For ain't she some related to you 'n' 

I?) 
But there 's a few small intrists here 

below 
Outside the counter o' John Bull an' 

Co, 
An', though they can't conceit how 't 

should be so, 
I guess the Lord druv down Creation's 

spiles 
'Thout no gret helpin' from the British 

Isles, 
An' could contrive to keep things pooty 

stiff 
Ef thev withdrawed from business in a 

miff; 
I ha'n't no patience with sech swellin' 

fellers ez 
Think God can't forge 'thout them to 

blow the bellerses. 

THE MONIMENT. 

You 're oilers quick to set your back 
aridge, — 



27° 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Though 't suits a tom-cat more 'n a 
sober bridge : 

Don't you git het : they thought the 
thing was planned ; 

They '11 cool off when they come to un- 
derstand. 

THE BRIDGE. 

Ef thet 's wut you expect, you '11 hev 

to wait : 
Folks never understand the folks they 

hate: 
She '11 fin' some other grievance jest ez 

good, 
'Fore the month 's out, to git misun- 
derstood. 
England cool off! She '11 do it, ef she 

sees 
She 's run her head into a swarm o' 

bees. 
I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose : 
I hev thought England was the best 

thet goes ; 
Remember (no, you can't), when / was 

reared, 
God save the King was all the tune you 

heerd : 
But it 's enough to turn Wachuset roun', 
This stum pin' fellers when you think 

they 're down. 

THE MONIMENT. 

But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim 

at law, 
The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. 
An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle 

bricks 
We '11 give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix : 
That 'ere 's most frequently the kin' o' 

talk 
Of critters can't be kicked to toe the 

chalk ; 
Your "You '11 see nex* time!" an' 

" Look out bumby ! " 
Most oilers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 
'Twun't pay to scringe to England: 

will it pay 
To fear that meaner bully, old " They '11 

say " ? 
Suppose they du say : words are dreffle 

bores, 
But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy- 
fours. 
Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit 



Where it Ml help to widen out our split : 
She 's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for 

us to come 
An' lend the beetle thet 's to drive it 

home. 
For growed-up folks like us 't would be 

a scandle, 
When we git sarsed, to fly right off the 

handle. 
England ain't all bad, coz she thinks 

us blind : 
Ef she can't change her skin, she can 

her mind ; 
An' we shall see her change it double- 
quick, 
Soon ez we 've proved thet we 're 

a-goin' to lick. 
She an' Columby 's gut to be fas' 

friends ; 
For the world prospers by their privit 

ends : 
'T would put the clock back all o' fifty 

years, 
Ef they should fall together by the ears. 

THE BRIDGE. 

I 'gree to thet ; she s nigh us to wut 

• France is ; 
But then she '11 hev to make the fust 

advances ; 
We 've gut pride, tu, an' gut it by good 

rights, 
An' ketch me stoopin' to pick up the 

mites 
O' condescension she '11 be lettin' fall 
When she finds out we ain't dead arter 

all! 
I tell ye wut, it takes more 'n one good 

week 
Afore my nose forgits it 's hed a tweak. 

THE MONIMENT. 

She '11 come out right bumby, thet I '11 

engage, 
Soon ez she gits to seem' we 're of age ; 
This talkin' down o' hers ain t wuth a 

fuss ; 
It 's nat'ral ez nut likin' 't is to us ; 
Ef we 're agoin' to prove we be growed- 

'Twun't be by barkin' like a tamer 

pup, 
But turnin' to an' makin' things ez 

good 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



271 



Ez wut we *re oilers braggin* that we 

could ; 
We 're bound to be good friends, an' so 

we 'd oughto, 
In spite of all the fools both sides the 

water. 

THE BRIDGE. 

I b'lieve thet 's so ; but hearken in 

your ear, — 
I 'm older 'n you, — Peace wun't keep 

house with Fear : 
Ef you want peace, the thing you've 

gut to du 
Is jes' to show you 're up to fightin', tu. 
/ recollect how sailors' rights was won 
Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' 

gun : 
Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet 

he 
Hed gut a kind o* mortgage on the sea ; 
You 'd thought he held by Gran'ther 

Adam's will, 
An' ef you knuckle down, he '11 think 

so still. 
Better thet all our ships an' all their 

crews 
Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless 

ooze, 
Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it 

went, 
An' each dumb gun a brave man's 

moniment, 
Than seek sech peace ez only cowards 

crave : 
Give me the peace of dead men or of 

brave ! 

THE MONIMENT. 

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious 
Fourth : 

You'd oughto lamed 'fore this wut talk 
wuz worth. 

It ain't our nose thet gits put out o' jint ; 

It 's England thet gives up her dearest 
pint. 

We 've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du 

In our own fem'ly fight, afore we 're 
thru. 

I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's 
shame, 

When every flag-staff flapped its teth- 
ered flame, 



An* all the people, startled from their 

doubt, 
Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a 

shout, — 
I hoped to see things settled 'fore this 

fall, 
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, 

an' all ; 
Then come Bull Run, an' sence then 

I 've ben waitin' 
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin', 
Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's 

trace 
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my 

base, 
With daylight's flood an' ebb : it 's 

gittin' slow, 
An' I 'most think we 'd better let 'em 

S°- .-■■-'. 

I tell ye wut, this war's a-goin to 
cost 

THE BRIDGE. 

An' I tell you it wun't be money lost ; 
Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you '11 

allow 
Thet havin' things onsettled kills the , 

cow: 
We 've gut to fix this thing for good 

an' all ; 
It 's no use buildin' wut 's a-goin' to 

fall. 
I 'm older 'n you, an' I 've seen things 

an' men, 
An' my experunce, — tell ye wut it 's 

ben : 
Folks thet worked thorough was the 

ones thet thriv, 
But bad work follers ye ez long's ye 

live; 
You can't git red on 't ; jest ez sure ez 

sin, 
It 's oilers askin' to be done agin : 
Ef we should part, it would u't be a 

week 
'Fore your soft-soddered peace would 

spring aleak. 
We 've turned our cuffs up, but, to put 

her thru, 
We must git mad an' off with jackets, 

tu; 
'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't 

perlite, — 



272 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



You 've gut to be in airnest, ef you 

fight ; 
Why, two-thirds o 1 the Rebbles 'ould 

cut dirt, 
Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment 

meant to hurt ; 
An' I du wish our Gin'rals hed in mind 
The folks in front more than the folks 

behind ; 
You wun'tdo much ontil you think it 's 

God, 
An' not constitoounts, thet holds the 

rod ; 
We want some more o' Gideon's sword, 

I jedge, 
For proclamations ha'n't no gret of 

edge ; 
There 's nothin' for a cancer but the 

knife, 
Onless you set by 't more than by your 

life. 
/ 've seen hard times ; I see a war be- 
gun 
Thet folks thet love their bellies never 'd 

won ; 
Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven 

long year ; 
But when 't was done, we did n't count 

it dear. 
Why, law an' order, honor, civil right, 
Ef they ain't wuth it, wut is wuth a 

fight? 
I 'm older 'n you : the plough, the axe, 

the mill, 
All kin's o' labor an' all kin's o' skill, 
Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw, 
Eft warn't for thet slow critter, 'stab- 

lished law ; 
Onsettle thet, an' all the world goes 

whiz, 
A screw 's gut loose in everythin' there 

is : 
Good buttresses once settled, don't you 

fret 
An' stir 'em ; take a bridge's word for 

thet ! 
Young folks are smart, but all ain't 

good thet 's new ; 
I guess the gran'thers they knowed 

sunthin', tu. 

THE MONIMENT. 

Amen to thet 1 build sure in the begin- 
nin', 



An' then don't never tech the under- 

pinnin' : 
Th' older a guv'ment is, the better 't 

suits ; 
New ones hunt folks's corns out like 

new boots : 
Change jes' for change, is like them big 

hotels 
Where they shift plates, an' let ye live 

on smells. 



THE BRIDGE. 

Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes 

down : 
It 's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't 

drown ; 
An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or 

swim, 
Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by 

Him. 
This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be 
A better country than man ever see. 
I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry 
Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' 

prophesy ! " 
O strange New World, thet yit wast 

never young, 
Whose youth from thee bygripin' need 

was wrung, 
Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose 

baby-bed 
Was prowled roun' by the Injun's crack- 

lin' tread, 
An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' 

wants an' pains, 
Nussed by stern men with empires in 

their brains, 
Who saw in vision their young Ishmel 

strain 
With each hard hand a vassal ocean's 

mane, 
Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret 

events 
To pitch new States ez Old-World men 

pitch tents, 
Thou, taught by Fate to know Jeho- 
vah's plan 
Thet man's devices can't unmake a 

man, 
An' whose free latch-string never was 

, drawed in 
Against the poorest child of Adam's 

kin, — 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



273 



The grave's not dug where traitor 
' hands shall lay 

In fearful haste thy murdered corse 

away • 
I see 

Jest here some dogs be- 
gun to bark, 

So thet I lost old Concord's last re- 
mark : 

I listened long, but all I seemed to 
hear 

Was dead leaves goss'pin' on some 
birch- trees near ; 

But ez they hed n : t no gret things to 
say, 

An' sed 'em often, I come right away, 

An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the 
time, 

I put some thoughts thet bothered me 
in rhyme ; 

I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, 

But here they be — it 's 



JONATHAN TO JOHN. 

It don't seem hardly right, John, 

When both my hands was full, 
To stump me to a fight, John, — 
Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
We know it now," sez he, 
" The lion's paw is all the law, 
Accordin' to J. B., 
Thet 's fit for you an' me ! " 

You wonder why we 're hot, John ? 

Your mark wuz on the guns, 
The neutral guns, thet shot, John, 
Our brothers an' our sons : 
Ole Uncle S sez he, " I guess 
There 's human blood," sez he, 
" By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, 
Though 't may surprise J. B. 
More 'n it would you an' me." 

Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, 

On yoiir front-parlor stairs, 
Would it jest meet your views, John, 
To wait an' sue their heirs? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
I on'yguess," sez he, 
" Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 
18 



'T would kind o' rile J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

Who made the law thet hurts, John, 

Heads I 'win, — ditto tails ? 
"J. £." was on his shirts, John, 
Onless my memory fails, 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
(I 'm good at thet)," sez he, 
"Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the 
juice 
For ganders with J. B., 
No more than you or me ! " 

When your rights was our wrongs, 
John, 
You did n't stop for fuss, — 
Britanny's trident prongs, John, 
Was good 'nough law for us. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
Though physic 's good," sez he, 
" It doesn't foller thet he can swaller 
Prescriptions signed ' J. /?.,' 
Put up by you an' me I " 

We own the ocean, tu, John : 

You mus' n' take it hard, 
Ef we can't think with you, John, 

It 's jest your own back-yard. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 

Ef thet 's his claim," sez he, 
"The fencin'-stufF'll cost enough 
To bust up friend J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

Why talk so dreffle big, John, 

Of honor when it meant 
You didn't care a fig, John, 
But jest for ten per cent ? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
He 's like the rest," sez he : 
" When all is done, it 's number one 
Thet 's nearest to J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

We give the critters back, John, 

Cos Abram thought 't was right ; 
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, 
Provokin' us to fight. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
We've a hard row," sez he, 
" To hoe jest now ; but thet somehow, 
May happen to J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me 1 M 



274 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



We ain't so weak an' poor, John, 

With twenty million people, 
An' close to every door, John, 
A school-house an' a steeple. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
It is a fact," sez he, 
"The surest plan to make a Man 
Is, think him so, J. B., 
Ez much ez you or me ! " 

Our folks believe in Law, John ; 

An' it 's for her sake, now, 
They 've left the axe an' saw, John, 
The anvil an' the plough. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
Eft warn't for law," sez he, 
" There 'd be one shindy from here to 
Indy ; 
An' thet don't suit J. B. 
(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me !)" 

We know we 've got a cause, John, 

Thet 's honest, just, an' true ; 
We thought 't would win applause, 
John, 
Ef nowheres else, from you. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
His love of right," sez he, 
" Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton : 
There 's natur' in J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

The South says, Poor folks down ! " 
John, 
An' "All men up f " say we, — 
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John : 
Now which is your idee? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
John preaches wal," sez he ; 
" But, sermon thru, an' come to du, 
Why, there 's the old J. B. 
A crowdin' you an' me ! " 

Shall it be love, or hate, John? 

It 's you thet 's to decide ; 
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, 
Like all the world's beside ? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
Wise men forgive," sez he, 
" But not forget ; an' some time yet 
Thet truth may strike J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

God means to make this land, John, 
Clear thru, from sea to sea, 



Believe an' understand, John, 
The ivuth o' bein' free. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 

God's price is high," sez he ; 
"But nothin' else than wut He sells 

Wears long, an' thet J. B. 

May lam, like you an' me ! " 



No. III. 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., 
TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW. 

With the following Letter from the 
Reverend Homer Wilbur, A. M. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM, 7th Feb., 1862. 
Respected Friends, — If I know 
myself, — and surely a man can hardly 
be supposed to have overpassed the 
limit of fourscore years without attain- 
ing to some proficiency in that most 
useful branch of learning (e coelo de- 
scendit, says the pagan poet), — I have 
no great smack of that weakness which 
would press upon the publick attention 
any matter pertaining to my private 
affairs. But since the following letter 
of Mr. Savvin contains not only a direct 
allusion to myself, but that in connection 
with a topick of interest to all those en- 
gaged in the publick ministrations of 
the sanctuary, I may be pardoned for 
touching briefly thereupon. Mr. Sivvin 
was never a stated attendant upon my 
preaching, — never, as I believe, even 
an occasional one, since the erection of 
the new house (where we now worship) 
in 1845. He did, indeed, for a time, 
supply a not unacceptable bass in the 
choir ; but, whether on some umbrage 
{omnibus _ hoc vitium est cantoribus) 
taken against the bass-viol, then, and 
till his decease in 1850 {cet. 77,) under 
the charge of Mr. Asaph Perley, or, as 
was reported by others, on account of 
an imminent subscription for a new 
bell, he thenceforth absented himself 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



275 



from all outward and visible communion. 
Yet he seems to have preserved [alta 
mente repostnm), as it were, in the 
pickle of a mind soured by prejudice, 
a lasting scicnner, as he would call it, 
against our staid and decent form of 
worship ; for I would rather in that wise 
interpret his fling, than suppose that 
any chance tares sown by my pujpit 
discourses should survive so long, while 
good seed too often mils to root itself. 
1 humbly trust that 1 have no personal 
feeling in the matter ; though I know 
that, if we sound any man deep enough, 
our lead shall bring up the mud of 
human nature at last. The Bretons 
believe in an evil spirit which they call 
arc'houskezik, whose office it is to make 
the congregation drowsy ; and though 
I have never had reason to think that 
he was specially busy among my flock, 
yet have 1 seen enough to make me 
sometimes regret the hinged seats of 
the ancient meeting-house, whose lively 
clatter, not unwillingly intensified by 
boys beyond eyeshot of the tithing- 
man, served at intervals as a wholesome 
reveil. It is true, I have numbered 
among my parishioners some who are 
proof against the prophylactick fennel, 
nay, whose gift of somnolence rivalled 
that of the Cretan Rip Van Winkle, 
Epimenides, and who, nevertheless, 
complained not so much of the sub- 
stance as of the length of my (by them 
unheard) discourses. Some ingenious 
persons of a philosophick turn have as- 
sured us that our pulpits were set too 
high, and that the soporifick tendency 
increased with the ratio of the angle in 
which the hearer's eye was constrained 
to seek the preacher. This were a 
curious topick for investigation. There 
can be no doubt that some sermons are 
pitched too high, and I remember many 
struggles with the drowsy fiend in my 
youth. Happy Saint Anthony of Padua, 
whose finny acolytes, however they 
might profit, could never murmur ! 
Quare fre7nuer7int gentes ? Who is 
he that can twice a week be inspired, 
or has eloquence {ut ita dicuni) always 
on tap? A good man, and, next to 
David, a sacred poet (himself, haply, 



not inexpert of evil in this particular), 
has said, — 

"The worst speak something good: if all 
want sense, 
God takes a text and preacheth patience." 

There are one or two other points in 
Mr. Sawin's letter which 1 would also 
briefly animadvert upon. And first, 
concerning the claim he sets up to a 
certain superiority of biood and lineage 
in the people of our Southern States, 
now unhappily in rebellion against law- 
ful authority and their own better inter- 
ests. There is a sort of opinions, an- 
achronisms at once and anachorisms, 
foreign both to the age and the coun- 
try, that maintain a feeble and buzzing 
existence, scarce to be called life, like 
winter flies, which in mild weather 
crawl out from obscure nooks and cran- 
nies to expatiate in the sun, and some- 
times acquire vigor enough to disturb 
with their enforced familiarity the stu- 
dious hours of the scholar. One of the 
most stupid and pertinacious of these 
is the theory that the Southern States 
were settled by a cla s of emigrants 
from the Old World socially superior 
to those who founded the institutions 
of New England. The Virginians es- 
pecially lay claim to this generosity of 
lineage, which were of no possible ac- 
count, were it not for the fact that such 
superstitions are sometimes not without 
their effect on the course of human af- 
fairs. The early adventurers to Massa- 
chusetts at least paid their passages ; 
no felons were ever shipped thither ; 
and though it be true that many de- 
boshed younger brothers of what are 
called good families may have sought 
refuge in Virginia, it is equally certain 
that a great part of the early deporta- 
tions thither were the sweepings of the 
London streets and the leavings of the 
London stews. It was this my Lord 
Bacon had in mind when he wrote : 
" It is a shameful and unblessed thing 
to take the scum of people and wicked 
condemned men to be the people with 
whom you plant." That certain names 
are found there is nothing to the pur- 
pose, for, even had an alias been be- 
yond the invention of the knaves of 



vjb 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



that generation, it is known that ser- 
vants were often called by their mas- 
ters' names, a? slaves are now. On 
what the heraids cail the spind.e side, 
some, at least, of the oldest Virginian 
families are descended from matrons 
who were exported and sold lor so 
many hogsheads of tobacco the head. 
So notorious was this, that it became 
one of the jokes of contemporary play- 
wrights, not only that men bankrupt in 
purse and character were "food lor the 
Plantations " (and this before the set- 
tlement of New England), but also that 
any drab would suffice to wive such piti- 
ful adventurers. " Never choose a 
wife as if you were going to Virginia," 
says Middleton in one of his comedies. 
The mule is apt to forget all but the 
equine side of his pedigree. How early 
the counterfeit nobility of the Old Do- 
minion became a topick of ridicule in the 
Mother Country may be learned from a 
play of Mrs. Behn's, founded on the 
Rebellion of Bacon : for even these 
kennels of literature may yield a fact 
or two to pay the raking. Mrs. Flirt, 
the keeper of a Virginia ordinary, calls 
herself the daughter of a baronet "un- 
done in the late rebellion," — her fa- 
ther having in truth been a tailor,— 
and three of the Council, assuming to 
themselves an equal splendour of origin, 
are shown to have been, one "a broken 
exciseman who came over a poor ser- 
vant," another a tinker transported for 
theft, and the third "a common pick- 
pocket often floggred at the cart's tail." 
The ancestry of South Carolina will as 
little pass muster at the Herald's Visi- 
tation, though I hold them to have been 
more reputable, inasmuch as many of 
them were honest tradesmen and arti- 
sans, in some measure exiles for con- 
science' sake, who would have smiled 
at the high-flying nonsense of their de- 
scendants. Some of the more respect- 
able were Jews. The absurdity of sup- 
posing a population of eight millions all 
sprung from gentle loins ir. the course 
of a century and a half is too manifest 
for confutation. But of what use to 
discuss the matter? An expert geneal- 
ogist will provide any solvent man with 



a genus et proavos to order. My Lord 
Burleigh said that " nobility was an- 
cient riches," whence also the Spanish 
were wont to call their nobles ricos 
hombres, and the aristocracy of Amer- 
ica are the descendants of those who 
first became wealthy, by whatever 
means. Petroleum will in this wise be 
th< scurce of much good blood among 
our posterity. The aristocracy of the 
South, such as it is, has the shallowest 
of all foundations, for it is only skin- 
deep, —the most odious of all, for, 
while affecting to despise trade, it traces 
its origin to a successful trafhck in men, 
women, and children, and still draws 
its chief revenues thence. And though, 
as Doctor Chamberlayne consolingly 
says in his Present State of England, 
"to become a Merchant of Foreign 
Commerce, without serving any Ap- 
prentisage, hath been allowed no dis- 
paragement to a Gentleman born, espe~ 
dally to a younger Brother," yet I con- 
ceive that he would hardly have made a 
like exception in favour of the particular 
trade in question. Oddly enough this 
trade reverses the ordinary standards 
of social respectability no less than of 
morals, for the retail and domestick is as 
creditable as the wholesale and foreign 
is degrading to him who follows it. 
Are our morals, then, no better than 
mores after all ? I do not believe that 
such aristocracy as exists at the South 
(for I hold with Marius, fortissimum 
quemque generosissimum) will be 
found an element of anything like per- 
sistent strength in war, — thinking the 
saying of Lord Bacon (whom one 
quaintly called inductionis dominus et 
Verulamii) as true as it is pithy, that 
" the more gentlemen, ever the more 
books of subsidies." It is odd enough 
as an historical precedent, that, while 
the fathers of New England were lay- 
ing deep in religion, education, and 
freedom the basis of a polity which 
has substantially outlasted any then 
existing, the first work of the founders 
of Virginia, as may be seen in Wing- 
field's Memorial, was conspiracy and 
rebellion, — odder yet, as showing the 
changes which are wrought by circuits 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



277 



stance, that the first insurrection in 
South Carolina was against the aristo- 
cratical scheme of the Proprietary Gov- 
ernment. I do not find that the cutic- 
ular aristocracy of the South has added 
anything to the refinements of civiliza- 
tion except the carrying of bowie- 
knives and the chewing of tobacco, — 
a high-toned Southern gentleman be- 
ing commonly not only quadrumanous, 
but quidruminant. 

I confess that the present letter of 
Mr. Sawin increases my doubts as to 
the sincerity of the convictions which 
he professes, and I am inclined to think 
that the triumph of the legitimate Gov- 
ernment, sure sooner or later to take 
place, will find him and a large major- 
ity of his newly adopted fellow-citizens 
(who hold with Daedalus, the primal 
sitter-on-the-fence, that medium tenere 
tutissimum) original Union men. The 
criticisms towards the close of his letter 
on certain of our failings are worthy to 
be seriously perpended ; for he is not, 
as I think, without a spice of vulgar 
shrewdness. Fas est etab hoste doceri : 
there is no reckoning without your host. 
As to the good-nature in us which he 
seems to gird at, while I would not 
consecrate a chapel, as they have not 
scrupled to do in France, to Notre 
Dame de la Haine (Our Lady of Hate), 
yet I cannot forget that the corruption 
of good-nature is the generation of lax- 
ity of principle. Good-nature is our 
national characteristick ; and though it 
be. perhaps, nothing more than a cul- 
pable weakness or cowardice, when it 
leads us to put up tamely with mani- 
fold impositions and breaches of im- 
plied contracts, (as too frequently in 
our publick conveyances,) it becomes a 
positive crime, when it leads us to look 
unresentfully on peculation, and to re- 
gard treason to the best Government 
that ever existed as something with 
which a gentleman may shake hands 
without soiling his fingers. I do not 
think the gallows-tree the most profita- 
ble member of our Sylva; but, since it 
continues to be planted, I would fain 
see a Northern limb ingrafted on it, 
that it may bear some other fruit than 
loyal Teunesseeans. 



A relick has recently been discovered 
on the east bank of Bushy Brook in 
North Jaalam, which I conceive to be 
an inscription in Runick characters 
relating to the early expedition of the 
Northmen to this continent. I shall 
make fullerinvestigations, and commu- 
nicate the result in due season. 

Respectfully, 

Your obedient servant, 

Homer Wilbur, A. M. 

. P. S. — I inclose a year's subscrip- 
tion from Deacon Tinkham. 



I hed it on my min' las' time, when I 

to write ye started, 
To tech the leadin' feature o' my gittin* 

me convarted ; 
But, ez my letters hez to go clearn roun* 

by way o' Cuby, 
'T wun't seem no staler now than then, 

by th' time it gits where you be. 
You know up North, though sees an* 

things air plenty ez you please, 
Ther' warn't nut one on 'em thet come 

jes' square with my idees : 
They all on 'em w uz too much mixed 

with Covenants o' Works, 
An' would hev answered jest ez wal for 

Afrikins an' Turks, 
Fer where 's a Christian's privilige an* 

his rewards ensuin', 
Eft ain't perfessin' right an eend 'thout 

nary need o' doin'? 
I dessay they suit workin'-folks thet 

ain't noways pertie'lar, 
But nut your Southun gen'leman thet 

keeps his parpendie'lar ; 
I don't blame nary man thet casts his 

lot along o' his folks, 
But ef you cal'late to save me, 't must 

be with folks thet is. folks ; 
Cov'nants o' works go 'ginst my grain, 

but down here I 've found out 
The true fns'-fem'ly A 1 plan, — here's 

how it come about. 
When I fus' sot up with Miss S., sez she 

to me, sez she, 
" Without you git religion, Sir, the 

thing can't never be ; 
Nut but wut I respeck," sez she, "your 

intellectle part, 
But you wun't noways du for me athout 

a change o' heart : 



278 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Nothun religion works wal North, but 

it 's ez soft ez spruce, 
Compared to ourn, for keepin' sound," 

sez she, " upon the goose ; 
A day's experunce 'd prove to ye, ez 

easy 'z pull a trigger. 
It takes the Southun pint o' view to 

raise ten bales a nigger ; 
You '11 fin' thet human natur, South, 

ain't wholesome more 'n skin-deep, 
An' once 't a darkie 's took with it, he 

wun't be wuth his keep." 
" How shell I git it, Ma'am?" sez I. 

"Attend the nex' camp-meetin'," 
Sez she, *' an' it '11 come to ye ez cheap 

ez onbleached sheetin'." 



Wal, so I went along an' hearn most 

an impressive sarmon 
About besprinklin' Afriky with fourth- 
proof dew o' Harmon : 
He did n' put no weaknin' in, but gin it 

tu us hot, 
*Z ef he an' Satan 'd ben two bulk in 

one five-acre lot : 
I don't purtend to foller him, but give 

ye jes' the heads ; 
For pulpit ellerkence, you know, 'most 

oilers kin' o' spreads. 
Ham's seed wuz gin to us in chairge, 

an' should n't we be li'ble 
In Kingdom Come, ef we kep' back 

their priv'lege in the Bible? 
The cusses an' the promerses make one 

gret chain, an' ef 
Vou snake one link out here, one there, 

how much on 't ud be lef ' ? 
All things wuz gin to man for 's use, 

his sarvice, an' delight ; 
An' don't the Greek an' Hebrew words 

thet mean a Man mean White? 
Ain't it belittlin' the Good Book in all 

its proudes' featurs 
To think 't wuz wrote for black an' 

brown an' 'lasses-colored creaturs, 
Thet could n' read it, ef they would, nor 

ain't by lor allowed to, 
But ough' to take wut we think suits 

their naturs, an' be proud to? 
Warn't it more prof table to bring your 

raw materil thru 
Where you can work it inta grace an' 

inta cotton, tuy 



Than sendin' missionaries out where 

fevers might defeat 'em, 
An' ef the butcher did n' call, their 

p'rishioners might eat 'em ? 
An' then, agin, wut airthly use? Nor 

't warn't our fault, in so fur 
Ez Yankee skippers would keep on 

a-totin' on 'em over. 
'T improved the whites by savin' 'em 

from ary need o' wurkin', 
An' kep' the blacks from bein' lost thru 

idleness an' shirkin' ; 
We took to 'em ez nat'ral ez a barn-owl 

doos to mice, 
An' hed our hull time on our hands to 

keep us out o' vice ; 
It made us feel ez pop'lar ez a hen doos 

with one chicken, 
An' fill our place in Natur's scale by 

givin' 'em a lickin' : 
For why should Caesar git his dues 

more 'n Juno, Pomp, an' CuiTy ? 
It's justifyin' Ham to spare a nigger 

when he 's stuffy. 
Where 'd their soles go tu, like to 

know, ef we should let 'em ketch 
Freeknowledgism an' Fourierism an' 

Speritoolism an' sech ? 
When Satan sets himself to work to 

raise his very bes' muss, 
He scatters roun' onscriptur'l views 

relatin' to Ones'mus. 
You 'd ough' to seen, though, how his 

fccs an' argymunce an' figgers 
Drawed tears o' real conviction from a 

lot o' pen'tent niggers ! 
It warn't like Wilbur's meetin', where 

you 're shet up in a pew, 
Your dickeys sorrin' off your ears, an' 

bilin' to be thru ; 
Ther' wuz a tent clost by thet hed a 

kag o' sunthin' in it, 
Where you could go, ef you wuz dry, 

an' damp ye in a minute ; 
An' ef you did dror off a spell, ther* 

wuz n't no occasion 
To lose the thread, because, ye see, he 

bellered like all Bashan. 
It 's dry work follerin' argymunce an"* 

so, 'twix' this an' thet, 
I felt conviction weighin' down some- 
how inside my hat ; 
It growed an' growed like Jonah's 

gourd, a kin' o' whirlin' ketched me, 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



279 



Ontil I.fin'lly clean giv out an* owned 
up thet he 'd fetched me ; 

An' when nine tenths o' th' perrish took 
to tumblin' roun' an' hollerin', 

I did n' fin' no gret in th' way o' turn- 
in' tu an' follerin'. 

Soon ez Miss S. see thet, sez she, 
" Thetis wut I call wuth seein' ! 

Thet 's actin' like a reas'nable an' in- 
tellects bein' ! " 

An' so we fin'ilymade it up, concluded 
to hitch hosses, 

An' here I be 'n my ellermunt among 
creation's bosses ; 

Arter I 'd drawed sech heaps o' blanks, 
Fortin at last hez sent a prize, 

An' chose me for a shinin' light o' mis- 
sionary entaprise. 



This leads me to another pint on 

which I 've changed my plan 
O' thinkin' so's't I might become a 

straight-out Southun man. 
Miss S. (her maiden name wuz Higgs, 

o' the fus' fem'ly here) 
On her Ma's side 's all Juggernot, on 

Pa's all Cavileer, 
An' sence I 've merried into her an' 

stept into her shoes, 
It ain't more 'n nateral thet I should 

modderfy my views : 
I 've ben a-readin' in Debow ontil I 've 

fairly gut 
So 'nlightened thet I 'd full ez lives 

ha' ben a Dook ez nut ; 
An' when we 've laid ye all out stiff, 

an' Jeff hez gut his crown, 
An' comes to pick his nobles out, 

ivunH this child be in town ! 
We'll hev an Age o' Chivverlry sur- 

passin' Mister Burke's, 
Where every fem'ly is fus' -best an* 

nary white man works : 
Our system 's sech, the thing" '11 root ez 

easy ez a tater ; 
For while your lords in furrin parts 

ain't noways marked by natur', 
Nor sot apart from ornery folks in 

featurs nor in figgers, 
Ef ourn '11 keep their faces washed, 

you '11 know 'em from their niggers. 
Ain't sech things wuth secedin' for, an' 

gittin' - 



Thet waller in your low idees, an' will 

till all is blue ? 
Fact is, we air a diff rent race, an' I, 

for one, don't see, 
Sech havin' oilers ben the case, how 

w' ever did agree. 
It's sunthin' thet you lab'rin'-folks up 

North hed ough' to think on, 
Thet Higgses can't bemean themselves 

to rulin' by a Lincoln, — 
Thet men, (an' guv'nors, tu,^ thet hez 

sech Normal names ez Pickens, 
Accustomed to no kin' o' work, 'thout 

't is to givin' lickins, 
Can't masure votes with folks thet get 

their livins from their farms, 
An' prob'ly think thet Law's ez good 

ez hevin' coats o' arms. 
Sence I 've ben here, I 've hired a chap 

to look about for me 
To git me a transplantable an' thrifty 

fem'ly-tree, 
An' he tells me the Sawins is ez much 

o' Normal blood 
Ez Pickens an' the rest on 'em, an' 

older 'n Noah's flood. 
Your Normal schools wun't turn ye 

into Normals, for it 's clear, 
Ef eddykatin' done the thing, they'd 

be some skurcer here. 
Pickenses, Boggses, Pettuses, Magof- 

fins, Letchers, Polks, — 
Where can you scare up names like 

them among your mudsill folks ? 
Ther' 's nothin' to compare with 'em, 

you 'd fin', ef you should glance, 
Among the tip-top femerlies in Englan', 

nor in France : 
I 've hearn from 'sponsible men whose 

word wuz full ez good 's their note, 
Men thet can run their face for drinks, 

an' keep a Sunday coat, 
Thet they wuz all on 'em come down, 

and come down pooty fur, 
From folks thet, 'thout their crowns wuz 

on, ou' doors would n' never stir, 
Nor thet ther' warn't a Southun man 

but wut wuz primyfashy 
O the bes' blood in Europe, yis, an* 

Afriky an' Ashy : 
Sech bein' the case, is 't likely we should 

bend like cotton-wickin', 
Or set down under anythin' solow-lived 

ez a lickin' ? 



2fc> 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 






More 'n this, — hain't we the Hteratoor 

an' science, tu, by gorry ? 
Hain't we them intellectle twins, tbem 

giants, Simms an' Maury, 
Each with full twice the ushle brains, 

like nothin' thet I know, 
'Thout 't wuz a double-headed calf I see 

once to a show? 

For all thet, I warn't jest at fust in 

favor o' secedin' ; 
I wuz for layin' low a spell to find out 

where 't wuz leadin', 
For hevin' South-Carliny try her hand 

at sepritnationin', 
She takin' resks an' findin' funds, an' 

we co-operationin', — 
I mean a kin' o' hangin' roun' an' set- 
tin' on the fence, 
Till Prov'dunce pinted how to jump 

an' save the most expense ; 
I recollected thet 'ere mine o' lead to 

Shiraz Centre 
Thet bust up Jabez Pettibone, an' did 

n't want to ventur' 
'Fore I wuz sartin wut come out ud 

pay for wut went in, 
For swappin' silver off for lead ain't 

the sure way to win ; 
(An', fact, it doos look now ez though — 

but folks must live an' iarn — 
We should git lead, an' more 'n we 

want, out o' the Old Consarn ;) 
But when I see a man so wise an' hon- 
est ez Buchanan 
A-lettin' us hev all the forts an' all the 

arms an' cannon, 
Admittin' we wuz nat'lly right an you 

wuz nat'lly wrong, 
Coz you wuz lab'rin'-folks an' we wuz 

wut they call bong-tong, 
An' coz there warn't no fight in ye 

more 'n in a mashed potater, 
While two o' us can't skurcely meet 

but wut we fight by natur', 
An' th' ain't a bar-room here would 

pay for openin' on 't a night, 
Without it giv the priverlege o' bein' 

shot at sight, 
Which proves we 're Natur's noblemen, 

with whom it don't surprise 
The British aristoxy should feel boun' 

to sympathize, — 
Seein' all this, an' seein', tu, the thing 

wuz strikin' roots 



While Uncle Sam sot still in hopes thet 

some one 'd bring his boots, 
I thought th' ole Union's hoops wuz 

off, an' let myself be sucked in 
To rise a peg an' jine the crowd thet 

went for reconstructin', — 
Thet is, to hev the pardnership under 

th' ole name continner 
Jest ez it wuz, we drorrin' pay, you 

findin' bone an' sinner, — 
On'y to put it in the bond, an' enter 't 

in the journals, 
Thet you 're the nat'ral rank an' file, 

an' we the nat'ral kurnels. 

Now this I thought a fees'ble plan, 

thet 'ud work smooth ez grease, 
Suitin' the Nineteenth Century an' 

Upper Ten idees, 
An' there I meant to stick, an' so did 

most o' th' leaders, tu, 
Coz we all thought the chance wuz good 

o' puttin' on it thru ; 
But Jeff he hit upon a way o' helpin' 

on us forrard 
By bein' unannermous, — a trick you 

ain't quite up to, Norrard. 
A baldin hain't no more 'f a chance 

with them new apple-corers 
Than folks's oppersition views aginst 

the Ringtail Roarers ; 
They '11 take 'em out on him 'bout 

east, — one canter on a rail 
Makes a man feel unannermous ez Jo- 
nah in the whale ; 
Or ef he 's a slow-moulded cuss thet 

can't seem quite t' agree, 
He gits the noose by tellergraph upon 

the nighes' tree : 
Their mission-work with Afrikins hez 

put 'em up, thet 's sartin, 
To all the mos' across-lot ways o' 

preachin' an' convartin' ; 
I '11 bet my hat th' ain't nary priest, nor 

all on 'em together, 
Thet cairs conviction to the min' like 

Reveren' Taranfeather ; 
Why, he sot up with me one night, an' 

labored to sech purpose, 
Thet (ez an owl by daylight 'mongst a 

flock o' teazin' chirpers 
Sees clearer 'n mud the wickedness o' 

eatin' little birds) 
I see my error an' agreed to shen it 

arterwurds ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



281 



An' I should say, (to jedge our folks by 

facs in my possession,) 
Thet three's Unannermous where one's 

a 'Riginal Secession ; 
So it 's a thing you fellers North may 

safely bet your chink on, 
Thet we 're all water-proofed agin th' 

usurpin' reign o' Lincoln. 

Jeff's some. He 's gut another plan 

thet hez pertic'lar merits, 
In givin' things a cherfle look an' stiff- 

nin' loose-hung sperits ; 
For while your million papers, wut with 

lyin' an' discussin', 
Keep folks's tempers all on eend a-fu- 

min' an' a-fussin', 
A-wondrin' this an' guessin' thet, an' 

dreadin' every night, 
The breechin' o' the Univarse '11 break 

afore it 's light, 
Our papers don't purtend to print on'y 

wut Guv'ment choose, 
An' thet insures us all to git the very 

best o' noose : 
Jeff hez it of all sorts an' kines, an' 

sarves it out ez wanted, 
So 's 't every man gits wut he likes an' 

nobody ain't scanted ; 
Sometimes it 's vict'ries, (they 're 'bout 

all ther' is that 's cheap down here,) 
Sometimes it 's France aa' England on 

the jump to interfere. 
Fact is, the less the people know o' wut 

ther' is a-doin', 
The hendier 't is for Guv'ment, sence 

it henders trouble brewin' ; 
An' noose is like a shinplaster, — it's 

good, ef you believe it, 
Or, wut 's all same, the other man thet 

's goin' to receive it : 
Ef you 've a son in th' army, wy, it's 

comfortin' to hear 
He '11 hev no gretter resk to run than 

seein' th' in'my's rear, 
Coz, ef an F. F. "looks at 'em, they 

oilers break an' run, 
Or wilt right down ez debtors will thet 

stumble on a dun 
(An' this, ef an'thin', proves the wutho' 

proper fem'ly pride, 
Fer sech mean shucks ez creditors are 

all on Lincoln's side) ; 
Ef I hev scrip thet wun\ go off no 

more 'n a Beigm rifle, 



An' read thet it 's at par on 'Change, it 
makes me feel deli'fle ; 

It 's cheerin', tu, where every man mus 1 
fortify his bed, 

To hear thet Freedom 's the one thing 
our darkies mos'ly dread, 

An' thet experunce, time 'n' agin, to 
Dixie's Land hez shown 

Ther' 's nothin' like a powder-cask f'r 
a stiddy corner-stone ; 

Ain't it ez good ez nuts, when salt is 
sellin' by the ounce 

For its own weight in Treash'ry-bons, 
(ef bought in small amounts,) 

When even whiskey 's gittin' skurce 
an' sugar can't be found, 

To know thet all the ellerments o' lux- 
ury abound ? 

An' don't it glorify sal'-pork, to come 
to understand 

It 's wut the Richmon' editors call fat- 
ness o' the land ! 

Nex' thing to knowin' you 're well off 
is nut to know when y' ain't ; 

An' ef Jeff says all 's goin' wal, who '11 
ventur' t' say it ain't? 

This cairn the Constitooshun roun' ez 

Jeff doos in his hat 
Is hendier a dreffle sight, an' comes 

more kin' o' pat. 
I tell ye wut, ray jedgment is you 're 

pooty sure to fail, 
Ez long 'z the head keeps turnin' back 

for counsel to the tail : 
Th' advantiges of our consarn for bein' 

prompt air gret, 
While, 'long o' Congress, you can't 

strike, 'f you git an iron het ; 
They bother roun' with argooin', an' 

var'ous sorts o' foolin', 
To make sure ef it 's leg'lly het, an' all 

the while it 's coolin', 
So 's 't when you come to strike, it ain't 

no gret to wish ye j'y on, 
An' hurts the hammer 'z much or more 

ez wut it doos the iron, 
Jeff don't allow no jawin'-sprees for 

three months at a stretch, 
Knowin' the ears long speeches suits 

air mostly made to metch ; 
He jes' ropes in your tonguey chaps 

an' re^'lar ten-inch bores 
An' lets 'ewj play at Congress, ef they'll 

du it >ith closed doors , 



282 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



So they ain't no more bothersome than 

ef we 'd took an' sunk 'em, 
An' yit enj'y th' exclusive right to one 

another's Buncombe 
'Thout doin' nobody no hurt, an' 'thout 

its costin' nothin', 
Their pay bein' jes' Confedrit funds, 

they findin' keep an' clothin' ; 
They taste the sweets o' public life, an' 

plan their little jobs, 
An' suck the Treash'ry, (nogret harm, 

for it 's ez dry ez cobs,) 
An' go thru all the motions jest ez safe 

ez in a prison, 
An' hev their business to themselves, 

while Buregard hez hisn : 
£z long 'z he gives the Hessians fits, 

committees can't make bother 
•Bout whether 't 's done the legle way 

or whether 't 's done the t'other. 
An' / tell you you 've gut to larn thet 

War ain't one long teeter 
Betwixt / wan* to an' 'T wun't du, de- 

batin' like a skeetur 
Afore he lights, — all is, to give the 

other side a millin', 
An' arter thet 's done, th' ain't no resk 

but wut the lor '11 be willin' ; 
No metter wut the guv'ment is, ez 

nigh ez I can hit it, 
A lickin' 's constitooshunal, pervidin' 

We don't git it. 
Jeff don't stan' dilly-dallyin', afore he 

takes a fort, 
(With no one in,) to git the leave o' 

the nex' Soopreme Court, 
Nor don't want forty-'leven weeks o' 

jawin' an' expoundin' 
To prove a nigger hez a right to save 

him, ef he 's drowndin' ; 
Whereas ole Abram 'd sink afore he 'd 

let a darkie boost him, 
Ef Taney should n't come along an' 

hedn't interdooced him. 
It ain't your twenty millions thet '11 

ever block Jeff's game, 
But one Man thet wun't let 'em jog 

jest ez he 's takin' aim : 
Your numbers they may strengthen ye 

or weaken ye, ez 't heppens 
They're willin' to be helpin' hands Or 

wuss'n-nothin' cap'ns. 

I 'Ve ohose my side, an' 't ain't no odds 
ef I wuz drawed with magnets, 



Or ef I thought it prudenter to jine the 

nighes' bagnets ; 
I 've made my ch'ice, an' ciphered out, 

from all I see an' heard, 
Th' ole Constitooshun never 'd git her 

decks for action cleared, 
Long 'z you elect for Congressmen poor 

shotes thet want to go 
Coz they can't seem to git their grub no 

otherways than so, 
An' let your bes' men stay to home coz 

they wun't show ez talkers, 
Nor can't be hired to fool ye an' sof- 

soap ye at*a caucus, — 
Long 'z ye set by Rotashun more 'n ye 

do by folks's merits, 
Ez though experunce thriv by change 

o' sile, like corn an' kerrits, — 
Long 'z you allow a critter's " claims " 

coz, spite o' shoves an' tippins, 
He 's kep' his private pan jest where 't 

would ketch mos' public drip- 
pins, — 
Long 'z A. '11 turn tu an' grin' B.'s exe, 

ef B. '11 help him grin' hisn, 
(An' thet 's the main idee by which 

your leadin' men hev risen,) — 
Long 'z you let ary exe begroun', 'less 

't is to cut the weasan' 
O' sneaks thet dunno till they 're told 

wut is an' wut ain't Treason, — 
Long 'z ye give out commissions to a 

lot o' peddlin' drones 
Thet trade in whiskey with their men 

an' skin 'em to their bones, — 
Long 'z ye sift out " safe " canderdates 

thet no one ain't afeared on 
Coz they 're so thund'rin' eminent for 

bein' never heard on, 
An' hain't no record, ez it 's called, for 

folks to pick a hole in, 
Ez ef it hurt a man to hev a body with 

a soul in, 
An' it wuz ostentashun to be showin' 

on 't about, 
When half his feller-citizens contrive to 

do without, — 
Long 'z you suppose your votes can 

turn biled kebbage into brain. 
An' ary man thet 's pop'lar 's fit to drive 

a lightnin'-train, — 
Long 'z you believe democracy means 

I'mez good ez you be* 
An' that a feller from the ranks can't 

be a knave or booby, — 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



283 



Long 'z Congress seems purvided, like 

yer street-cars an' yer 'busses, 
With oilers room for jes' one more o' 

your spiled-in-bakin' cusses, 
Dough 'thout the emptins of a soul, an' 

yit with means about 'em 
(Like essence-peddlers *) thet '11 make 

folks long to be without 'em, 
Jest heavy 'nough to turn a scale thet 's 

doubtfle the wrong way, 
An' make their nat'ral arsenal o' bein' 

nasty pay, — 
Long'z them things last, (an' / don't 

see no gret signs of improvin',) 
I sha' n't up stakes, not hardly yit, nor 't 

would n't pay for movin' ; 
For, 'fore you lick us, it '11 be the 

long'st day ever you see. 
Yourn, (ez I 'xpec' to be nex' spring,) 
B., Markiss o' Big Boosy. 



No. IV. 

A MESSAGE OF JEFF DAVIS 
IN SECRET SESSION. 

Conjecturally reported by H. BlGLOW. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM, 10th March, 1862. 

Gentlemen, — My leisure has been 
so entirely occupied with the hitherto 
fruitless endeavour to decypher the Ru- 
nick inscription whose fortunate discov- 
ery I mentioned in my last communica- 
tion, that I have not found time to dis- 
cuss, as I had intended, the great prob- 
lem of what we are to do with slavery, 
— a topick on which the publick mind in 
this place is at present more than ever 
agitated. What my wishes and hopes 
are I need not say, but for safe conclu- 
sions I do not conceive that we are yet 
in possession of facts enough on which 
to bottom them with certainty. Ac- 
knowledging the hand of Providence, 
as I do, in all events, I am sometimes 
inclined to think that they are wiser 

* A rustic euphemism for the American 
variety of the Mephitis. H. W. 



than we, and am willing to wait till we 
have made this continent once more a 
place where freemen can live in secu- 
rity and honour, before assuming any 
further responsibility. This is the view 
taken by my neighbour Habakkuk Slo- 
ansure, Esq., the president of our bank, 
whose opinion in the practical affairs 
of life has great weight with me, as I 
have generally found it to be justified 
by the event, and whose counsel, had I 
followed it, would have saved me from 
an unfortunate investment of a consid- 
erable part of the painful economies of 
half a century in the Northwest-Pas- 
sage Tunnel. After a somewhat ani- 
mated discussion with this gentleman, 
a few days since, 1 expanded, on the 
audi alteram, partem principle, some- 
thing which he happened to say by way 
of illustration, into the following fable. 



FESTINA LENTE. 

ONCE on a time there was a pool 
Fringed all about with flag-leaves cool 
And spotted with cow-lilies garish, 
Of frogs and pouts the ancient parish. 
Alders the creaking redwings sink on, 
Tussocks that house blithe Bob o' Lincoln 
Hedged round the unassailed seclusion, 
Where muskrats piled their cells Carthusian ; 
And many a moss-embroidered log, 
The watering-place of summer frog, 
Slept and decayed with patient skill, 
As watering-places sometimes will. 

Now in this Abbey of Theleme, 

Which realized the fairest dream 

That ever dozing bull-frog had, 

Sunned on a half-sunk lily-pad, 

There rose a party with a mission 

To mend the polliwogs' condition, 

Who notified the selectmen 

To call a meeting there and then. 

"Some kind of steps," they said, "are 

needed ; 
They don't come on so fast as we did : 
Let *s dock their tails ; if that don't make 'em 
Frogs by brevet, the Old One take 'em i 
That boy, thet came the other day 
To dig some flag-root down this way, 
His jack-knife left, and 't is a sign 
That Heaven approves of our design : 
'T were wicked not to urge the step on, 
When Providence has sent the weapon." 

Old croakers, deacons of the mire, 
That led the deep batrachian choir, 
Uk ! Uk ! Caronk I with bass that might 



2 8 4 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Have left Lablache's out of sight, 
Shook nobby heads, and said, " No go 1 
You 'd better let 'em try to grow : 
Old Doctor Time is slow, but still 
He does know how to make a pill." 

But vain was all their hoarsest bass, 
Their old experience out of place, 
And spite of croaking and entreating, 
The vote was carried in marsh-meeting. 

" Lord knows," protest the polliwogs, 
" We 're anxious to be grown-up frogs ; 
But do not undertake the work 
Of Nature till she prove a shirk ; 
'T is not by jumps that she advances, 
But wins her way by circumstances : 
Pray, wait awhile, until you know 
We 're so contrived as not to grow ; 
Let Nature take her own direction, 
And she '11 absorb our imperfection ; 
You might n't like 'em to appear with, 
But we must have the things to steer with." 

" No," piped the party of reform, 
" All great results are ta'en by storm ; 
Fate holds her best gifts till we show 
We 've strength to make her let them go ; 
The Providence that works in history, 
And seems to some folks such a mystery, 
Does not creep slowly on incog., 
But moves by jumps, a mighty frog; 
No more reject the Age's chrism, 
Your queues are an anachronism ; 
No more the Future's promise mock, 
But lay your tails upon the block, 
Thankful that we the means have voted 
To have you thus to frogs promoted." 

The thing was done, the tails were cropped, 

And home each philotadpole hopped, 

In faith rewarded to exult, 

And wait the beautiful result. 

Too soon it came ; our pool, so long 

The theme of patriot bullfrog's song, 

Next day was reeking, fit to smother, 

With heads and tails that missed each other, — 

Here snoutless tails, there tailless snouts ; 

The only gainers were the pouts. 



MORAL. 
From lower to the higher next, 
Not to the top, is Nature's text ; 
And embryo Good, to reach full stature, 
Absorbs the Evil in its nature. 



I think that nothing will ever give 
permanent peace and security to this 
continent but the extirpation of Slavery 
therefrom, and that the occasion is 
nigh ; but I would do nothing hastily 
or vindictively, nor presume to jog the 
elbow of Providence. No desperate 



measures for me till we are sure that all 
others are hopeless, — flee tere sine que o 
superos, A cheronta movebo. To make 
Emancipation a reform instead of a 
revolution is worth a little patience, 
that we may have the Border States 
first, and then the non-slaveholders of 
the Cotton States, with us in principle, 
— a consummation that seems to be 
nearer than many imagine. Fiatjusti- 
tia, mat coelu?n, is not to be taken in a 
literal sense by statesmen, whose prob- 
lem is to get justice done with as little 
jar as possible to existing order, which 
has at least so much of heaven in it that 
it is not chaos. Our first duty toward 
our enslaved brother is to educate him, 
whether he be white or black. The 
first need of the free black is to elevate 
himself according to the standard of 
this material generation. So soon as 
the Ethiopian goes in his chariot, he 
will find not only Apostles, but Chief 
Priests and Scribes and Pharisees will- 
ing to ride with him. 

Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se 
Quam quod ridiculos homines facit. 

I rejoice in the President's late Mes- 
sage, which at last proclaims the Gov- 
ernment on the side of freedom, justice, 
and sound policy. 

As I write, comes the news of our 
disaster at Hampton Roads. I do not 
understand the supineness which, after 
fair warning, leaves wood to an unequal 
conflict with iron. It is not enough 
merely to have the right on our side, if 
we stick to the old flint-lock of tradition. 
I have observed in my parochial expe- 
rience (hand ignartis mali) that the 
Devil is prompt to adopt the latest in- 
ventions of destructive warfare, and 
may thus take even such a three-decker 
as Bishop Butler at an advantage. It 
is curious, that, as gunpowder made 
armour useless on shore, so armour is 
having its revenge by baffling its old 
enemy at sea, — and that, while gun- 
powder robbed land warfare ot nearly 
all its picturesqueness to give even 
greater stateliness and sublimiiv to a 
sea-fight, armour bids fair to degrade tba 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



285 



latter into a squabble between two iron- 
shelled turtles. 

Yours, with esteem and respect, 

Homer Wilbur, A. M. 

P. S. — I had wellnigh forgotten to 
say that the object of this letter is to 
enclose a communication from the gifted 
pen of Mr. Biglow. 



I sent you a messige, my friens, t'other 

day, 
To tell you I 'd nothin' pertickler to say : 
'T wuz the day our new nation gut kin' 

o' stillborn, 
So 't wuz my pleasant dooty t' acknowl- 
edge the corn, 
An' I see clearly then, ef I didn't be- 
fore, 
Thet the augur in inauguration means 

bore. 
I need n't tell you thet my messige wuz 

written 
To diffuse correc 9 notions in France an' 

Gret Britten, 
An' agin to impress on the poppylar 

mind 
The comfort an' wisdom o' goin' it 

blind, — 
To say thet I did n't abate not a hooter 
O' my faith in a happy an' glorious 

futur', 
Ez rich in each soshle an' p'litickle 

blessin' 
Ez them thet we now hed the joy o' 

possessin' 
With a people united, an' longin' to die 
For wut ive call their country, without 

askin' why, 
An' all the gret things we concluded to 

slope for 
Ez much within reach now ez ever — 

to hope for. 
We 've gut all the ellerments, this very 

' hour, 
Thet make up a fiis'-class, self-govern - 

in' power : 
We 've a war, an' a debt, an' a flag ; an' 

ef this 
Ain't to be inderpendunt, why, wut on 

airth is? 
An' nothin' now benders our takin' our 

station 



Ez the freest, enlightenedest, civerlized 
nation, 

Built up on our bran'-new politickle 
thesis 

Thet a Gov'ment's fust right is to tum- 
ble to pieces, — 

I say nothin' henders our takfn' our 
place 

Ez the very fus'-best o' the whole 
human race, 

A spittin' tobacker ez proud ez you 
please 

On Victory's bes' carpets, or loafin' at 
ease 

In the Tool'ries front-parlor, discussin' 
affairs 

With our heels on the backs o' Na- 
poleon's new chairs, 

An' princes a-mixin' our cocktails an' 
slings, — 

Excep', wal, excep' jest a very few 
things, 

Sech ez navies an' armies an' where- 
with to pay, 

An* gittin' our sogers to run t'other 
way, 

An' not be too over-pertickler in tryin' 

To hunt up the very las' ditches to die 
in. 

Ther' are critters so base thet they 

want it explained 
Jes' wut is the totle amount thet we 've 

gained, 
Ez ef we could maysure stupendous 

events 
By the low Yankee stan'ard o' dollars 

an' cents : 
They seem to forgit, thet, sence last 

year revolved, 
We 've succeeded in gittin' seceshed 

an' dissolved, 
An' thet no one can't hope to git thru 

dissolootion 
'Thout some kin' o' strain on the best 

Constitootion. 
Who asks for a prospec' more flettrin' 

an' bright, 
When from here clean to Texas it 's all 

one free fight ? 
Hain't we rescued from Seward the 

gret leadin' featurs 
Thet makes it wuth while to be reasonin' 

creaturs ? 



a86 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Hain't we saved Habus Coppers, im- 
proved it in fact, 
By suspendin' the Unionists 'stid o' the 

Act? 
Ain't the laws free to all ? Where on 

airth else d' ye see 
Every freeman improvin' his own rope 

an' tree ? 
Ain't our piety sech (in our speeches an' 

messiges) 
Ez t' astonish ourselves in the bes'- 

composed pessiges, 
An' to make folks that knowed us in th' 

ole state o' things 
Think convarsion ez easy ez drinkin' 

gin-slings ? 

It 's ne'ssary to take a good confident 

tone 
With the public ; but here, jest amongst 

us, I own 
Things look blacker 'n thunder. Ther' 

's no use denyin' 
We 're clean out o' money, an' 'most 

out o' lyin', — 
Two things a young nation can't men- 

nage without, 
Ef she wants to look wal at her fust 

comin' out ; 
For the fust supplies physickle strength, 

while the second 
Gives a morril edvantage thet 's hard to 

be reckoned : 
For this latter I 'm willin' to du wut I 

can ; 
For the former you '11 hev to consult on 

a plan, — 
Though our fust want (an' this pint I 

want your best views on) 
Is plausible paper to print I. O. U.s on. 
Some gennlemen think it would cure 

all our cankers 
In the way o' finance, ef we jes' hanged 

the bankers ; 
An' I own the proposle 'ud square with 

my views, 
Ef their lives wuz n't all thet we'd left 

'em to lose. 
Some say thet more confidence might 

be inspired, 
Ef we voted our cities an' towns to be 

fired, — 
A plan thet 'ud suttenly tax our en- 
durance, 



Coz 't would be our own bills we 

should git for th' insurance ; 
But cinders, no metter how sacred we 

think 'em, 
Might n't strike furrin minds ez good 

sources of income, 
Nor the people, perhaps, would n't 

like the eclaw 
O' bein' all turned into paytriots by 

law. 
Some want we should buy all the cotton 

an' burn it, 
On a pledge, when we 've gut thru the 

war, to return it, — 
Then to take the proceeds an' hold 

them ez security 
For an issue o' bonds to be met at 

maturity 
With an issue o' notes to be paid in 

hard cash 
On the fus' Monday follerin' the 'tarnal 

Allsmash : 
This hez a safe air, an', once hold o' the 

gold, 
'Ud leave our vile plunderers out in the 

cold, 
An' might temp' John Bull, ef it warn't 

for the dip he 
Once gut from the banks o' my own 

Massissippi. 
Some think we could make, by arrangin' 

the figgers, 
A hendy home-currency out of our 

niggers ; 
But it wun't du to lean much on ary 

sech staff, 
For they 're gittin' tu current a'ready, 

by half. 
One gennleman says, ef we lef our 

loan out 
Where Floyd could git hold on 't, he 'd 

take it, no doubt ; 
But 't ain't jes' the takin', though 't 

hez a good look. 
We mus' git sunthin' out on it arter 

it 's took, 
An' we need now more 'n ever, with 

sorrer I own, 
Thet some one another should let us 

a loan, 
Sence a soger wun't fight, on'y jes' 

while he draws his 
Pay down on the nail, for the best of 

all causes, 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 



287 



'Thout askin* to know wut the quarrel 's 

about, — 
An' once come to thet, why, our game 

is played out. 
It 's ez true ez though I should n't 

never hev said it, 
Thet a hitch hez took place in our 

system o' credit ; 
I swear it 's all right in my speeches an' 

messiges, 
"Rut ther' 's idees afloat, ez ther' is 

about sessiges : 
Folks wun't take a bond ez a basis to 

trade on. 
Without nosin' round to find out wut 

it 's made on, 
An' the thought more an' more thru 

the public min' crosses 
Thet our Treshry hez gut 'mos' too 

many dead hosses. 
Wut 's called credit, you see, is some 

like a balloon, 
Thet looks while it 's up 'most ez ham- 
some 'z a moon. 
But once git a leak in 't an' wut looked 

so grand 
Caves righ' down in a jiffy ez flat ez 

your hand. 
Now the world is a dreffle mean place, 

for our sins, 
Where ther' ollus is critters about with 

long pins 
A-prickin' the bubbles we 've blowed 

with sech care. 
An' provin' ther' 's nothin' inside but 

bad air : 
They 're all Stuart Millses, poor-white 

trash, an' sneaks. 
Without no more criivverlry 'n Choc- 
taws or Creeks, 
Who think a real gennleman's promise 

to pay 
Is meant tobe tookin trade's ornery way : 
Them fellers an' I could n' never agree ; 
They 're the nateral foes o' the Southun 

Idee; 
I 'd gladly take all of our other resks on 

me 
To be red o' this low-lived politikle 

'con'my ! 

Now a dastardly notion is gittin* about 
Thet our bladder is bust an' the gas 
oozin' out, 



An' onless we can mennage in some 

way to stop it, 
Why, the thing 's a gone coon, an' we 

might ez wal drop it. 
Brag works wal at fust, but it ain't jes' 

the thing 
For a stiddy inves'ment the shiners to 

bring, 
An' votin' we 're prosp'rous a hundred 

times over 
Wun't change bein' starved into livm' 

on clover. 
Manassas done sunthin' tow'rds drawin' 

the wool 
O'er the green, antislavery eyes o' 

John Bull : 
Oh, warnH it a godsend, jes* when 

sech tight fixes 
Wuz crowdin' us mourners, to throw 

double-sixes ! 
I wuz tempted to think, an' it wuz n't 

no wonder, 
Ther' wuz reelly a Providence, — over 

or under, — 
When, all packed for Nashville, I fust 

ascertained 
From the papers up North wut a 

victory we 'd gained. 
'T wuz the time for diffusin* correc' 

views abroad 
Of our union an' strength an' relyin* on 

God; 
An', fact, when I 'd gut thru my fust 

big surprise, 
I much ez half b'lieved in my own 

tallest lies, 
An' conveyed the idee thet the whole 

Southun popperlace 
Wuz Spartans all on the keen jump for 

Thermopperlies, 
Thet set on the Lincolnites' bombs till 

they bust, 
An' fight for the priv'lege o' dyin' the 

fust ; 
But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an* 

the rest 
Of our recent starn-foremost successes 

out West, 
Hain't left us a foot for our swellin' to 

stand on, — 
We 've showed too much o' wut Bure- 

gard calls abandon^ 
For all our Thermopperlies (an* it *s a 

marcy 



288 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



We hain't hed no more) hev ben clean 

vicy-varsy, 
An' wut Spartans wuz ief ' when the 

battle wuz done 
Wuz them thet wuz too unambitious to 

run. 

Oh, ef we hed on'y jes' gut Reecog- 

nition, 
Things now would ha' ben in a different 

position ! 
You 'd ha' hed all you wanted : the 

paper blockade 
Smashed up into toothpicks, — un- 
limited trade 
In the one thing thet 's needfle, till 

niggers, I swow, 
Hed ben thicker 'n provisional shin- 
plasters now, — 
Quinine by the ton 'ginst the shakes 

when they seize ye, — 
Nice paper to coin into C. S. A. specie ; 
The voice of the driver 'd be heerd in 

our land, 
An' the univarse scringe, ef we lifted 

our hand : 
Would n't thet be some like a fulfillin' 

the prophecies, 
With all the fus' fem'lies in all the fust 

offices ? 
*T wuz a beautiful dream, an' all sorrer 

is idle, — 
But ^/"Lincoln would ha' hanged Ma- 
son an' Slidell ! 
For wouldn't the Yankees hev found 

they 'd ketched Tartars, 
Ef they 'd raised two sech critters as 

them into martyrs ? 
Mason wuz F. F. V., though a cheap 

card to win on, 
But t'other was jes' New York trash to 

begin on ; 
They ain't o' no good in European 

pellices, 
But think wut a help they 'd ha' ben 

on their gallowses ! 
They 'd ha' felt they wuz truly fulfillin' 

their mission, 
An', oh, how dog-cheap we 'd ha' gut 

Reecognition ! 

But somehow another, wutever we 've 

tried, 
Though the the'ry 's fust-rate, the facs 

wurit coincide : 



Facs are contrary 'z mules, an' ez ha 

in the mouth, 
An' they alius hev showed a mean spite 

to the South. 
Sech bein' the case, we hed best Icok 

about 
For some kin' o' way to slip our necks 

out : 
Le' 's vote our las' dollar, ef one can be 

found, 
(An', at any rate, votin' it hez a good 

sound,) — 
Le' |s swear thet to arms all our people 

is flyin', 
(The critters can't read, an' wun't know 

how we 're lyin',) — 
Thet Toombs is advancin' to sack Cin- 

cinnater, 
With a rovin' commission to pillage an* 

slahter, — 
Thet we 've throwed to the winds all 

regard for wut 's lawfle, 
An' gone in for sunthin' promiscu'sly 

aw fie. 
Ye see, hitherto, it 's our own knaves 

an' fools 
Thet we 've used, (those for whetstones, 

an' t'others ez tools,) 
An' now our las' chance is in puttin' to 

test 
The same kin' o' cattle up North an' 

out West, — 
Your Belmonts, Vallandighams, Woods- 

es, an' sech, 
Poor shotes thet ye could n't persuade 

us to tech, 
Not in ornery times, though we 're 

willin' to feed 'em 
With a nod now an' then, when we 

happen to need 'em ; 
Why, for my part, I 'd ruther shake 

hands with a nigger 
Than with cusses that load an' don't 

darst dror a trigger ; 
They 're the wust wooden nutmegs the 

Yankees produce, 
Shaky everywheres else, an' jes' sound 

on the goose ; 
They ain't wuth a cuss, an' I set noth- 

in' by 'em, 
But we 're in sech a fix thet I s'pose we 

mus' try 'em. 
I But, Gennlemen, here 's a de- 
spatch jes' come in 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



289 



Which shows thet the tide 's begun turn- 
in' agin, — 

Gret Cornfedrit success ! C'lumbus 
eevacooated ! 

I mus' run down an' hev the thing prop- 
erly stated, 

An' show wut a triumph it is, an' how 
lucky 

To fin'lly git red o' thet cussed Ken- 
tucky, — 

An' how, sence Fort Donelson, winnin' 
the day 

Consists in triumphantly gittin' away. 



No. V. 



SPEECH OF HONOURABLE 
PRESERVED DOE IN SE- 
CRET CAUCUS. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JjLALAM, I2th April, 1862. 

Gentlemen, — As I cannot but 
hope that the ultimate, if not speedy, 
success of the national arms is now 
sufficiently ascertained, sure as I am 
of the righteousness of our cause and 
its consequent claim on the blessing of 
God, (for I would not show a faith infe- 
rior to that of the pagan historian with 
his Facile evenit quod Dis cordi est,) 
it seems to me a suitable occasion to 
withdraw our minds a moment from the 
confusing din of battle to objects of 
peaceful and permanent interest. Let 
us not neglect the monuments of pre- 
terite history because what shall be his- 
tory is so diligently making under our 
eyes. Cras ingeyis iterabimus ceguor ; 
to-morrow will be time enough for that 
stormy sea ; to-day let me engage the 
attention of your readers with the Ru- 
nick inscription to whose fortunate dis- 
covery I have heretofore alluded. Well 
may we say with the poet, Multa re- 
nascuntur qua jam cecidere. And I 
would premise, that, although I can no 
longer resist the evidence of my own 
senses from the stone before me to the 
*9 



ante-Columbian discovery of this con- 
tinent by the Northmen, gens inclytis- 
sz'jhOj as they are called in a Palermi- 
tan inscription, written fortunately in a 
less debatable character than that which 
I am about to decipher, yet I would by 
no means be understood as wishing to 
vilipend the merits of the great Geno- 
ese, whose name will never be forgot- 
ten so long as the inspiring strains of 
" Hail Columbia" shall continue to be 
heard. Though he must be stripped 
also of whatever praise may belong to 
the experiment of the egg, which I find 
proverbially attributed by Castilian 
authors to a certain Juanito or Jack, 
(perhaps an offshoot of our giant-killing 
mythus,) his name will still remain one 
of the most illustrious of modern times. 
But the impartial historian owes a duty 
likewise to obscure merit, and my so- 
licitude to render a tardy justice is per- 
haps quickened by my having known 
those who, had their own field of labour 
been less secluded, might have found a 
readier acceptance with the reading 
publick. I could give an example, but 
I forbear : forsiian nosiru ex ossibus 
oritur ultor. 

Touching Runick inscriptions, I find 
that they may be classed under three 
general heads : i°. Those which are 
understood by the Danish Royal So- 
ciety of Northern Antiquaries, and 
Professor Rafn, their Secretary; 2 . 
Those which are comprehensible only 
by Mr. Rafn ; and 3 . Those which 
neither the Society, Air. Rafn, nor any- 
body else can be said in any definite 
sense to understand, and which accord- 
ingly offer peculiar temptations to 
enucleating sagacity. These last are 
naturally deemed the most valuable by 
intelligent antiquaries, and to this class 
the stone now in my possession fortu- 
nately belongs. Such give a pictur- 
esque variety to ancient events, because 
susceptible oftentimes of as many in- 
terpretations as there are individual 
archaeologists ; and since facts are only 
the- pulp in which the Idea or event- 
seed is softly imbedded till it ripen, it 
is of little consequence what colour or 
flavour we attribute to them, provided 



290 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 



it be agreeable. Availing myself of the 
obliging assistance of Mr. Arphaxad 
Bowers, an ingenious photographick 
artist, whose house-on-wheels has now 
stood for three years on our Meeting- 
House Green, with the somewhat con- 
tradictory inscription, — " our motto is 
onward" — I have sent accurate copies 
of my treasure to many learned men 
and societies, both native and Eu- 
ropean. I may hereafter communicate 
their different and {me judice) equally 
erroneous solutions. I solicit also, 
Messrs. Editors, your own acceptance 
of the copy herewith inclosed. I need 
only premise further, that the stone 
itself is a goodly block of metamor- 
phick sandstone, and that the Runes 
resemble very nearly the ornithichnites 
or fossil bird-tracks of Dr. Hitchcock, 
but with less regularity or apparent de- 
sign than is displayed by those remark- 
able geological monuments. These are 
rather the non bene j unctarum dis- 
cordia semina rerum. Resolved to 
leave no door open to cavil, I first of all 
attempted the elucidation of this re- 
markable example of lithick literature 
by the ordinary modes, but with no 
adequate return for my labour. I then 
considered myself amply justified in re- 
sorting to that heroick treatment the 
felicity of which, as applied by the great 
Bentley to Milton, had long ago enlisted 
my admiration. Indeed, I had already 
made up my mind, that, in case good 
fortune should throw any such invalua- 
ble record in my way, I would proceed 
with it in the following simple and satis- 
factory method. After a cursory ex- 
amination, merely sufficing for an ap- 
proximative estimate of its length, I 
would write down a hypothetical in- 
scription based upon antecedent proba- 
bilities, and then proceed to extract 
from the characters engraven on the 
stone a meaning as nearly as possible 
conformed to this a priori product of 
my own ingenuity. The result more 
than justified my hopes, inasmuch as 
the two inscriptions were made without 
any great violence to tally in all es- 
sential particulars. I then proceeded, 
not without some anxiety, to my second 



test, which was, to read the Runick 
letters diagonally, and again with the 
same success. With an excitement 
pardonable under the circumstances, 
yet tempered with thankful humility, I 
now applied my last and severest trial, 
my experimentum crt<cis. I turned 
the stone, now doubly precious in my 
eyes, with scrupulous exactness upside 
down. The physical exertion so far 
displaced my spectacles as to derange 
for a moment the locus of vision. I 
confess that it was with some tremu- 
lousness that I readjusted them upon 
my nose, and prepared my mind to 
bear with calmness any disappointment 
that might ensue. But, O albo dies 
notanda lapillo I what was my delight 
to find that the change of position had 
effected none in the sense of the writing, 
even by so much as a single letter ! I 
was now, and justly, as I think, satisfied 
of the conscientious exactness of my in- 
terpretation. It is as follows : — 

HERE 

BJARNA GRfMOLFSSON 

FIRST DRANK CLOUD-BROTHER 

THROUGH CHILD-OF-LAND-AND- 

WATER : 

that is, drew smoke through a reed 
stem. In other words, we have here a 
record of the first smoking of the herb 
Nicotiana Tabacum by an European 
on this continent. The probable re- 
sults of this discovery are so vast as to 
baffle conjecture. If it be objected, 
that the smoking of a pipe would hardly 
justify the setting up of a memorial 
stone, I answer, that even now the 
Moquis Indian, ere he takes his first 
whiff, bows reverently toward the four 
quarters of the sky in succession, and 
that the loftiest monuments have been 
reared to perpetuate fame, which is the 
dream of the shadow of smoke. The 
Saga, it will be remembered, leaves 
this Bjarna to a fate something like that 
of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, on board a 
sinking ship in the " wormy sea," hav- 
ing generously given up his place in the 
boat to a certain Icelander. It is doubly 
pleasant, therefore, to meet with this 
proof that the brave old man arrived 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



291 



safely in Vinland, and that his declining 
years were cheered by the respectful 
attentions of the dusky denizens of our 
then uninvaded forests. Most of all 
was I gratified, however, in thus link- 
ing forever the name of my native town 
with one of the most momentous oc- 
currences of modern times. Hitherto 
Jaalam, though in soil, climate, and 
geographical positiou as highly qualified 
to be the theatre of remarkable histori- 
cal incidents as any spot on the earth's 
surface, has been, if I may say it with- 
out seeming to question the wisdom of 
Providence, almost maliciously neglect- 
ed, as it might appear, by occurrences 
of world-wide interest in want of a sit- 
uation. And in matters of this nature 
it must be confessed that adequate 
events are as necessary as the vates 
sacer to record them. Jaalam stood 
always modestly ready, but circum- 
stances made no fitting response to her 
generous intentions. Now, however, 
she assumes her place on the historick 
roll. I have hitherto been a zealous 
opponent of the Circean herb, but I 
shall now re-examine the question with- 
out bias. 

I am aware that the Rev. Jonas 
Tutchel, in a recent communication to 
the Bogus Four Corners Weekly Me- 
ridian, has endeavoured to show that 
this is the sepulchral inscription of 
Thorwald Eriksson, who, as is well 
known, was slain in Vinland by the 
natives. But I think he has been mis- 
led by a preconceived theory, and can- 
not but feel that he has thus made an 
ungracious return for my allowing him 
to inspect the stone with the aid of my 
own glasses (he having by accident left 
his at home) and in my own study. The 
heathen ancients might have instructed 
this Christian minister in the rites of 
hospitality ; but much is to be pardoned 
to the spirit of self-love. He must in- 
deed be ingenious who can make out 
the words lier hvilir from any charac- 
ters in the inscription in question, 
which, whatever else it may be, is 
certainly not mortuary. And even 
should the reverend gentleman suc- 
ceed in persuading some fantastical 



wits of the soundness of his views, I do 
not see what useful end he will have 
gained. For if the English Courts of 
Law hold the testimony of grave-stones 
from the burial-grounds of Protestant 
dissenters to be questionable, eveu 
where it is essential in proving a de- 
scent, I cannot conceive that the epi- 
taphial assertions of heathens should 
be esteemed of more authority by any 
man of orthodox sentiments. 

At this moment, happening to cast 
my eyes upon the stone, on which a 
transverse light from my southern win- 
dow brings out the characters with 
singular distinctness, another interpre- 
tation has occurred to me, promising 
even more interesting results. I hasten 
to close my letter in order to follow at 
once the clew thus providentially sug- 
gested. 

I inclose, as usual, a contribution 
from Mr. Biglow, and remain, 

Gentlemen, with esteem and respect, 
Your Obedient Humble Servant, 
Homer Wilbur, A. M. 



I thank ye, my friens, for the warmth 

o' your greetin' : 
Ther' 's few airthly blessins but wut 's 

vain an' fleetin' ; 
But ef ther' is one thet hain't no cracks 

an' flaws, 
An' is wuth goin' in for, it 's pop'lar 

applause ; 
It sends up the sperits ez lively ez 

rockets, 
An' I feel it — wal, down to the eend o* 

my pockets. 
Jes' lovin' the people is Canaan in 

view 7 , 
But it 's Canaan paid quarterly t' hev 

'em love you ; 
It 's a blessin' thet 's breakin' out ollus 

in fresh spots ; 
It 's a-follerin' Moses 'thout losin' the 

flesh-pots. 
But, Gennlemen, 'scuse me, I ain't 

sech a raw cus 
Ez to go luggin' ellerkence into a 

caucus, — 
Thet is, into one where the call com- 
prehends 



292 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Nut the People in person, but on'y 

their friends ; 
I 'm so kin' o' used to convincin' the 

masses 
Of th' edvantage o' bein' self-governin' 

asses, 
I forgut thet we 're all o' the sort thet 

pull wires 
An' arrange for the public their wants 

an' desires, 
An' thet wut we hed met for wuz jes' to 

agree 
Wut the People's opinions in futur' 

should be. 

Now, to come to the nub, we 've ben 

all disappinted, 
An' our leadin' idees are a kind o' dis- 

jinted, — 
Though, fur ez the nateral man could 

discern, 
Things ough' to ha' took most an op- 

persite turn. 
But The'ry is jes' like a train on the 

rail, 
Thet, weather or no, puts her thru with- 
out fail, 
While Fac 's the ole stage thet gits 

sloughed in the ruts, 
An' hez to allow for your darned efs an' 

buts, 
An' so, nut intendin' no pers'nal re- 
flections, 
They don't — don't nut alius, thet is, — 

make connections : 
Sometimes, when it really doos seem 

thet they 'd oughter 
Combine jest ez kindly ez new rum an' 

water, 
Both '11 be jest ez sot in their ways ez a 

bagnet, 
Ez otherwise-minded ez th' eends of a 

magnet, 
An' folks like you 'n' me, thet ain't ept 

to be»sold, 
Git somehow or 'nother left out in the 

cold. 

I expected 'fore this, 'thout no gret of a 

row, 
Jeff D. would ha' ben where A. Lincoln 

is now, 
With Taney to say 't wuz all legle an' 

fair. 



An' a jury o' Deemocrats ready to 

swear 
Thet the ingin o' State gut throwed into 

the ditch 
By the fault o' the North in misplacin' 

the switch. 
Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with 

Buchanan to nuss 'em ; 
But the People they wouldn't be Mex- 
icans, cuss 'em ! 
Ain't the safeguards o' freedom upsot, 

'z you may say, 
Ef the right o' rev'lution is took clean 

away ? 
An' doos n't the right primy-fashy in- 
clude 
The bein' entitled to nut be subdued ? 
The fact is, we 'd gone for the Union so 

strong. 
When Union meant South ollus right 

an' North wrong, 
Thet the people gut fooled into thinkin' 

it might 
Worry on middlin' wal with the North 

in the right. 
We might ha' ben now jest ez pros- 

p'rousez France, 
Where p'litikle enterprise hez a fair 

chance, 
An' the people is heppy an' proud et 

this hour, 
Long ez they hev the votes, to let Nap 

hev the power ; 
But our folks they went an' believed 

wut we 'd told 'em, 
An', the flag once insulted, no mortle 

could hold 'em. 
'T wuz pervokin' jest when we wuz 

cert'in to win, — 
An' I, for one, wun't trust the masses 

agin : 
For a people thet knows much ain't fit 

to be free 
In the self-cockin', back-action style o' 

J. D. 

I can't believe now but wut half on 't is 

lies ; 
For who 'd thought the North wuz 

a-goin' to rise, 
Or take the pervokin'est kin' of a 

stump, 
'Thout 't wuz sunthin' ez pressin' ez 

Gabr'el's las' trump ? 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



*93 



Or who M ha* supposed, arter seek swell 

an' bluster 
'Bout the lick-ary-ten-on-ye fighters 

they 'd muster, 
Raised by hand on briled lightnin', ez 

op'lent 'z you please 
In a primitive furrest o' femmily- 

trees, — 
Who 'd ha' thought thet them South- 
erners ever 'ud show 
Starns with pedigrees to 'em like theirn 

to the foe, 
Or, when the vamosin' come, ever to 

find 
Nat'ral masters in front an' mean white 

folks behind ? 
By ginger, efl 'd ha' known half I know 

now, 
When I wuz to Congress, I wouldn't, I 

swow, 
Hev let 'em cairon so high-minded an' 

sarsy, 
'Thout some show o' wut you may call 

vicy-varsy. 
To be sure, we wuz under a contrac' jes' 

then 
To be dreffle forbearin' towards South- 

un men ; 
We hed to go sheers in preservin' the 

bellance : 
An' ez they seemed to feel they wuz 

wastin' their tellents 
'Thout some un to kick, 't warn't 

more 'n proper, you know, 
Each should funnish his part ; an' sence 

they found the toe, 
An' we wuz n't cherubs — wal, we found 

the buffer, 
For fear thet the Compromise System 

should suffer. 

I wun't say the plan hed n't onpleasant 

featurs, — 
For men are perverse an' onreasohin' 

creaturs, 
An' forgit thet in this life 't ain't likely 

to heppen 
Their own privit fancy should ollus be 

cappen, — 
But it worked jest ez smooth ez the key 

of a safe, 
An' the gret Union bearins played free 

from all chafe. 
They warn't hard to suit, ef they hed 

their own way ; 



An* we (thet is, some on us) made the 
thing pay : 

'T wuz a fair give-an'-take out of Uncle 
Sam's heap; 

Ef they took wut warn't theirn, wut we 
give come ez cheap ; 

The elect gut the offices down to tide- 
waiter, 

The people took skinnin' ez mild ez a 
tater, 

Seemed to choose who they wanted tu, 
footed the bills, 

An' felt kind o' 'z though they wuz 
havin' their wills, 

Which kep' 'em ez harmless an' cherfle 
ez crickets, 

While all we invested wuz names on 
the tickets : 

Wal, ther' 's nothin', for folks fond o* 
lib'ral consumption 

Free o' charge, like democ'acy tem- 
pered with gumption ! 

Now warn't thet a system wuth pains 

in presarvin', 
Where the people found jints an' their 

friens done the carvin', — 
Where the many done all o' their 

thinkin' by proxy, 
An' were proud on 't ez long ez 't wuz 

christened Democ'cy, — 
Where the few let us sap all o' Free- 
dom's foundations, 
Ef you call it reformin' with prudence 

an' patience, 
An' were willin' Jeffs snake-egg should 

hetch with the rest, 
Ef you writ " Constitootional " over the 

nest? 
But it 's all out o' kilter, ('twuz too good 

to last,) 
An' all jes' by J. D.'s perceedin' too 

fast; 
Ef he 'd on'y hung on for a month or 

two more, 
We 'd ha' gut things fixed nicer 'n they 

hed ben before : 
Afore he drawed off an' lef all in con- 
fusion, 
We wuz safely entrenched in the ole 

Constitootion, 
With an outlyin', heavy-gun, casemated 

fort 
To rake all assailants, — I mean th* 

S. J. Court. 



294 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Now I never '11 acknowledge (nut ef 

you should skin me) 
'T wuz wise to abandon sech works to 

the in'my, 
An' let him fin' out thet wut scared him 

so long, 
Our whole line of argyments, lookin' 

so strong, 
All our Scriptur' an' law, every the'ry 

an' fac', 
Wuz Quaker-guns daubed with Pro- 
slavery black. 
Why, ef the Republicans ever should 

git 
Andy Johnson or some one to lend 'em 

the wit 
An' the spunk jes' to mount Constitoo- 

tion an' Court 
With Columbiad guns, your real ekle- 

rights sort, 
Or drill out the spike from the ole Dec- 
laration 
Thet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' 

creation, 
We 'd better take maysures for shettin' 

up shop, 
An' put off our stock by a vendoo or 

swop. 

But they wun't never dare tu ; you '11 

see 'em in Edom 
'Fore they ventur' to go where their 

doctrines 'ud lead 'em : 
They 've ben takin' our princerples up 

ez we dropt 'em, 
An' thought it wuz terrible 'cute to 

adopt 'em ; 
But they '11 fin' out 'fore long thet their 

hope 's ben deceivin' 'em, 
An' thet princerples ain't o' no good, 

ef you b'lieve in 'em ; 
It makes 'em tu stiff for a party to use, 
Where they 'd ough' to be easy 'z an 

ole pair o' shoes 
If we say 'n our pletform thet all men 

are brothers, 
We don't mean thet some folks ain't 

more so 'n some others ; 
An' it 's wal understood thet we make 

a selection, 
An' thet brotherhood kin' o' subsides 

arter 'lection. 
The fust thing for sound politicians to 

larn is, 



Thet Truth, to dror kindly in all sorts 

o' harness, 
Mus' be kep' in the abstract, — for, 

come to apply it, 
You're ept to hurt some folks's inter- 

ists by it. 
Wal, these 'ere Republicans (some on 

'em) ects 
Ez though gineral mexims 'ud suit 

speshle facts ; 
An' there 's where we '11 nick 'em, 

there 's where they '11 be lost : 
For applyin' your princerple 's wut 

makes it cost, 
An' folks don't want Fourth o' July t* 

interfere 
With the business-consarns o' the rest 

o' the year, 
No more 'n they want Sunday to pry 

an' to peek 
Into wut they are doin' the rest o' the 

week. 

A ginooine statesman should be on his 

guard, 
Ef he must hev beliefs, nut to b'lieve 

'em tu hard ; 
For, ez sure ez he does, he '11 be blar- 

tin' 'em out 
'Thout regardin' the natur' o' man 

more 'n a spout, 
Nor it don't ask much gumption to 

pick out a flaw 
In a party whose leaders are loose in 

the jaw : 
An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint 
Thet we 'd better nut air our perceed- 

ins in print, 
Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your 

arm 
Thet may, ez things heppen to turn, do 

us harm ; 
For when you 've done all your real 

meanin' to smother, 
The darned things '11 up an' mean 

sunthin* or 'nother. 
Jeff'son prob'ly meant wal with his 

" born free an' ekle," 
But it 's turned out a real crooked stick 

in the sekle ; 
It 's taken full eighty-odd year — don't 

you see ? •■ — 
From the pop'lar belief to root out thet 

idee, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



295 



An*, arter all, suckers on 't keep buddin' 

forth 
In the nat'lly onprincipled mind o' the 

North. 
No, never say nothin' without you 're 

compelled tu, 
An' then don't say nothin' thet you can 

be held tu, 
Nor don't leave no friction-idees layin' 

loose 
For the ign'ant to put to incend'ary use. 

You know I 'm*a feller thet keeps a 

skinned eye 
On the leetle events thet go skurryin' 

by, 
Coz it 's of 'ner by them than by gret 

ones you '11 see 
Wut the p'litickle weather is likely to 

be. 
Now I don't think the South 's more 'n 

begun to be licked, 
But I du think, ez Jeff says, the wind- 
bag 's gut pricked ; 
It '11 blow for a spell an' keep puffin' 

an' wheezin', 
The tighter our army an' navy keep 

squeezin', — 
For they can't help spread-eaglein' long 

'z ther' 's a mouth 
To blow Enfield's Speaker thru lef ' at 

the South. 
But it 's high time for us to be settin' 

our faces 
Towards reconstructin' the national 

basis, 
With an eye to beginnin' agin on the 

jolly ticks 
We used to chalk up 'hind the back- 
door o' politics ; 
An' the fus' thing 's to save wut of 

Slav'ry ther' 's lef 
Arter this (I mus' call it) imprudence 

o' Jeff : 
For a real good Abuse, with its roots 

fur an' wide, 
Is the kin' o' thing / like to hev on my 

side ; 
A Scriptur' name makes it ez sweet ez 

a rose, 
An' it 's tougher the older an' uglier it 

grows — 
(I ain't speakin' now o' the righteous- 
ness of it, 



But the p'litickle purchase it gives an' 
the profit). 

Things look pooty squally, it must be 

allowed, 
An' I don't see much signs of a bow in 

the cloud : 
Ther' 's too many Deemocrats — lead- 
ers wut 's wuss — 
Thet go for the Union 'thoutcarin' acuss 
Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz 

heard on, 
So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian 

bird on. 
But ther' 's still some consarvative 

signs to be found 
Thet shows the gret heart o' the People 

is sound : 
(Excuse me for usin* a stump-phrase 

agin, 
But, once in the way on 't, they will 

stick like sin :) 
There 's Phillips, for instance, hez jes' 

ketched a Tartar 
In the Law-'n'-Order Party of ole 

Cincinnater ; 
An' the Compromise System ain't gone 

out o' reach, 
Long 'z you keep the right limits on 

freedom o' speech. 
'T warn't none too late, neither, to 

put on the gag, 
For he 's dangerous now he goes in for 

the flag 
Nut thet I altogether approve o' bad 

, eggs, 
They re mos' gin'lly argymunt on its 

las' legs, — 
An' their logic is ept to be tu indis- 
criminate, 
Nor don't ollus wait the right objecs to 

'liminate ; 
But there is a variety on 'em, you '11 

find, 
Jest ez usefle an' more, besides bein* 

refined, — 
I mean o' che sort thet are laid by the 

dictionary, 
Sech ez sophisms an' cant, thet '11 

kerry conviction ary 
Way thet you want to the right class o* 

men, 
An' are staler than all 't ever come 

from a hen : 



296 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



"Disunion" done wal till our resh 

Southun friends 
Took the savor all out on 't for national 

ends ; 
But I guess " Abolition " '11 work a 

spell yit, 
When the war 's done, an' so will 

" Forgive-an'-forgit." 
Times mus' be pooty thoroughly out o' 

all jint, 
Ef we can't make a good constitootional 

pint ; 
An' the good time '11 come to be 

grindin' our exes, 
When the war goes to seed in the nettle 

o' texes : 
Ef Jon'than don't squirm, with sech 

helps to assist him, 
I give up my faith in the free-suffrage 

system ; 
Democ'cy wun't be nut a mite in- 

terestin', 
Nor p'litikle capital much wuth in- 

vestin' ; 
An' my notion is, to keep dark an' lay 

low 
Till we see the right minute to put in 

our blow. — 

But I 've talked longer now 'n I hed 

any idee, 
An' ther' 's others you want to hear 

more 'n you du me ; 
So I '11 set down an' give thet 'ere 

bottle a skrimmage, 
For I 've spoke till I 'm dry ez a real 

graven image. 



No. VI. 

SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL 
LINE. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM, 17th May, 1862. 

Gentlemen, — At the special re- 
quest of Mr. Biglow, I intended to in- 
close, together with his own contribu- 
tion, (into which, at my suggestion, he 



has thrown a little more of pastoral 
sentiment than usual,) some passages 
from my sermon on the day of the Na- 
tional Fast, from the text, " Remember 
them that are in bonds, as bound with 
them," Heb. xiii. 3. But I have not 
leisure sufficient at present for the copy- 
ing of them, even were I altogether sat- 
isfied with the production as it stands. 
I should prefer, I confess, to contribute 
the entire discourse to the pages of 
your respectable miscellany, if it should 
be found acceptable upon perusal, es- 
pecially as I find the difficulty of selec- 
tion of greater magnitude than I had 
anticipated. What passes without 
challenge in the fervour of oral delivery, 
cannot always stand the colder criticism 
of the closet. I am not so great an en- 
emy of Eloquence as my friend Mr. 
Biglow would appear to be from some 
passages in his contribution for the cur- 
rent month. 1 would not, indeed, 
hastily suspect him of covertly glancing 
at myself in his somewhat caustick ani- 
madversions, albeit some of the phrases 
he girds at are not entire strangers 
to my lips. I am a more hearty ad- 
mirer of the Puritans than seems now 
to be the fashion, and believe, that, if 
they Hebraized a little too much in 
their speech, they showed remarkable 
practical sagacity as statesmen and 
founders. But such phenomena as Pu- 
ritanism are the results rather of great 
religious than merely social convul- 
sions, and do not long survive them. 
So soon as an earnest conviction has 
cooled into a phrase, its work is oyer, 
and the best that can be done with it is 
to bury it. Ite, missa est. I am in- 
clined to agree with Mr. Biglow that 
we cannot settle the great political 
questions which are now presenting 
themselves to the nation by the opin- 
ions of Jeremiah or Ezekiel as to the 
wants and duties of the Jews in their 
time, nor do I believe that an entire 
community with their feelings and 
views would be practicable or even 
agreeable at the present day. At the 
same time I could wish that their habit 
of subordinating the actual to the 
moral, the flesh to the spirit, and this 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



297 



world to the other, were more common. 
They had found out, at least, the great 
military secret that soul weighs more 
than body. — But I am suddenly called 
to a sick-bed in the household of a val- 
ued parishioner. 

With esteem and respect, 

Your obedient servant, 

Homer Wilbur. 



Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, 
An' it clings hold like precerdents in 

law : 
Your gra'ma'am put it there, — when, 

goodness knows, — 
To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es ; 
But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'- 

son's wife, 
(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in 

life?) 
An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks 

dread 
O' the spare chamber, slinks into the 

shed, 
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last 

subsides 
To holdin' seeds an' fifty things be- 
sides ; 
But better days stick fast in heart an' 

husk, 
An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' 

musk. 

Jes' so with poets : wut they 've airly 

read 
Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' 

head, 
So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest 

on sheers 
With furrin countries or played-out 

ideers, 
Nor hev a feelin', ef it doos n't smack 
O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way 

back : 
This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, 

an' things, 
Ez though we 'd nothin' here that 

blows an' sings, — 
(Why, I 'd give more for one live bobo- 
link 
Than a square mile o' larks in printer's 

ink,) — 



This makes 'em think our fust o' May 

is May, 
Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can 

say. 

little city-gals, don't never go it 
Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet ! 
They 're apt to puff, an' May-day sel- 
dom looks 

Up in the country ez it doos in books ; 

They 're no more like than hornets'- 
nests an' hives, 

Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. 

I, with my trouses perched on cow- 
hide boots, 

Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the 
roots, 

Hev seen ye come to fling on April's 
hearse 

Your muslin nosegays from the mil- 
liner's, 

Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen 
to choose, 

An' dance your throats sore in morock- 
er shoes : 

1 've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come 

wut would, 
Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with 

hardihood. 
Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind 

o' winch, 
Ez though 't wuz sunthin' paid for by 

the inch ; 
But yit we du contrive to worry thru, 
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing 's to 

du, 
An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, 
Ez stiddily ez though 't wuz a redoubt. 

I, country-born an' bred, know where 
to find 

Some blooms thet make the season suit 
the mind, 

An' seem to metch the doubtin' blue- 
bird's notes, — 

Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, 

Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef 
you on curl, 

Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,— 

But these are jes' Spring's pickets ; 
sure ez sin, 

The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; 

For half our May 's so awfully like 
May n't, 



298 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige 

saint ; 
Though I own up I like our back'ard 

springs 
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens 

an' things, 
An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout 

more words 
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, 

an' birds : 
Thet 's Northun natur', slow an' apt to 

doubt, 
But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no 

gin-out ! 

Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in 
tall trees, 

An' settlin' things in windy Congress- 
es, — 

Queer politicians, though, for I '11 be 
skinned 

Ef all on 'em don't head against the 
wind. 

'Fore long the trees begin to show be- 
lief, — 

The maple crimsons'to a coral-reef, 

Then saffern swarms swing off from all 
the willers 

So plump they look like yaller caterpil- 
lars, 

Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands 
unfold 

Softer 'n a baby's be at three days old : 

Thet 's robin-redbreast's almanick ; he 
knows 

Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom- 
snows ; 

So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' 
spouse, 

He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. 

Then seems to come a hitch, — things 
lag behind, 

Till some fine mornin' Spring makes 
up her mind, 

An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh 
their dams 

Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in 
an' jams, 

A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin- 
hole cleft, 

Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right 
an' left, 



Then all the waters bow themselves 

an' come, 
Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' 

foam, 
Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in 

tune 
An' gives one leap from April into June : 
Then all comes crowdin' in ; afore you 

think, 
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill 

woods with pink ; 
The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud ; 
The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy 

cloud ; 
Red-cedars blossom tu, though few 

folks know it, 
An' look all dipt in sunshine like a 

poet ; 
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' 

shade 
An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' 

sweet trade ; 
In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird 

clings 
An' for the summer vy'ge his ham- 
mock slings ; 
All down the loose-walled lanes in 

archin' bowers 
The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden 

flowers, 
Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals 

love to try 
With pins, — they '11 worry yourn so, 

boys, bimeby ! 
But I don't love your cat'logue style, — 

do you ? — 
Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo ; 
One word with blood in 't 's twice ez 

good ez two : 
'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' 

the year, 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is 

here ; 
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he 

swings, 
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiv- 

erin' wings, 
Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despaif, 
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru 

the air. 

I ollus feel the sap start in my veins 
In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly 
pains, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 



299 



Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to 

walk 
Off by myself to hev a privit talk 
With a queer critter thet can't seem to 

'gree 
Along o' me like most folks, — Mister 

Me. 
Ther' 's times when I 'm unsoshle ez a 

stone, 
An' sort o' suffocate to be alone, — 
I 'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are 

nigh, 
An' can't bear nothin' closer than the 

sky ; 
Now the wind 's full ez shifty in the 

mind 
Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I aiu't blind, 
An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west 

weather, 
My innard vane pints east for weeks 

together. 
My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my 

sins 
Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp 

ez pins : 
Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' 

sight 
An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight 
With the one cuss I can't lay on the 

shelf, 
The crook'dest stick in all the heap, — 

Myself. 

'T wuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'- 

time : 
Findin' my feelin's would n't noways 

rhyme 
With nobody's, but off the hendle flew 
An' took things from an east-wind pint 

o' view, 
I started off to lose me in the hills 
Where the pines be, up back o' 'Siah's 

Mills : 
Pines, ef you 're blue, are the best friends 

I know, 
They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feel- 
in's so, — 
They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I 

swan, 
You half-forgit you 've gut a body on. 
Ther' 's a small school'us' there where 

four roads meet, 
The door-steps hollered out by little 

feet, 



An' side-posts carved with names whose 

owners grew 
To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, 

tu ; 
'T ain't used no longer, coz the town 

hez gut 
A high-school, where they teach the 

Lord knows wut : 
Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now ; I 

guess 
We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories 

less, 
For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing 

ez sinnin' 
By overloadin' children's underpin- 

nin' : 
Wal, here it wuz I larned my ABC, 
An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with 

me. 

We 're curus critters : Now ain't jes' 
the minute 

Thet ever fits us easy while we 're in 
it; 

Long ez 't wuz futur', 't would be per- 
fect bliss, — 

Soon ez it 's past, thet time 's wuth ten 
o' this ; 

An' yit there ain't a man thet need be 
told 

Thet Now 's the only bird lays eggs o* 
gold. 

A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan 

An' think 't wuz life's cap-sheaf to be a 
man ; 

Now, gittin' gray, there 's nothin' I 
enjoy 

Like dreamin' back along into a boy : 

So the ole school'us' is a place I choose 

Afore all others, ef I want to muse ; 

I set down where I used to set, an' git 

My boyhood back, an' better things 
_ with it, — 

Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it is n't 
Cherrity, 

It 's want o' guile, an thet 's ez gret a 
rerrity, — 

While Fancy's Cushin', free to Prince 
and Clown, 

Makes the hard bench ez soft ez milk- 
weed-down. 

Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath 
arternoon 



30O 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune, 
I found me in the school'us' on my 

seat, 
Drummin' the march to No-wheres with 

my feet. 
Thinkin' o' nothin', I 've heerd ole 

folks say 
Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way : 
It 's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, 
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's 

blue. 
I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell : 
I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' 

Hell, 
Which some folks tell ye now is jest a 

metterfor 
(A the'ry, p'raps, itwun'ty^?/nonethe 

better for) ; 
I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we 'd 

win 
Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin : 
I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the 

wits, 
So much a month, warn't givin' Natur' 

fits, — 
Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their own 

milk fail, 
To work the cow thet hez an iron tail, 
An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the pan 
Would send up cream to humor ary 

man : 
From this to thet I let my worryin' 

creep, 
Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. 

Our lives in sleep are some like streams 

thet glide 
'Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each 

side, 
Where both shores' shadders kind o' 

mix an' mingle 
In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either 

single ; 
An' when you cast off moorin's from 

To-day, 
An' down towards To-morrer drift 

away, 
The imiges thet tengle on the stream 
Make a new upside-down'ard world o' 

dream : 
Sometimes they seem like sunrise- 
streaks an' warnin's 
O' wut '11 be in Heaven on Sabbath- 

mornin's, 



An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o* 

spite, 
Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't 

gone right. 
I 'm gret on dreams, an' often when I 

wake, 
I 've lived so much it makes my mem'ry 

ache, 
An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my 

cheer 
'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some 

bad, all queer. 



Now I wuz settin' where I 'd ben, it 

seemed, 
An' ain't sure yit whether I r'ally 

dreamed, 
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' 

slep', 
When I hearn some un stompin' up the 

step, 
An' lookin' round, ef two an' two make 

four, 
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. 
He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' 

spurs 
With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut- 

burrs, 
An' his gret sword behind him sloped 

away 
Long 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut 

to say. — 
" Ef your name 's Biglow, an' your 

given-name 
Hosee," sezhe, " it'sarteryou I came ; 
I 'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied by 

three." — 
" My wut ? " sez I. — " Yourgret-gret- 

gret," sez he : 
" You wouldn't ha' never ben here but 

for me. 
Two hundred an' three year ago this 

May 
The ship I come in sailed up Boston 

Bay; 
I 'd been a cunnle in our Civil War, — 
But wut on airth hev you gut up one 

for? 
Coz we du things in England, 't ain't for 

you 
To git a notion you can du 'em tu : 
I 'm told you write in public prints : ef 

true, 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



3°* 



It 's nateral you should know a thing 

or two." — 
" Thet air 's an argymunt I can't en- 
dorse, — 
'T would prove, coz you wear spurs, 

you kep' a horse ; 
For brains," sez I, " wutever you may 

think, 
Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an'- 

ink, — 
Though mos' folks write ez ef they 

hoped jes' quickenin' 
The churn would argoo skim-milk into 

thickenin' ; 
But skim-milk ain't a thing to change 

its view 
O' wut it 's meant for more 'n a smoky 

flue. 
But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder 

go, 
How in all Natur' did you come to 

know 
'Bout our affairs," sez I, " in Kingdom- 
Come ?" — 
" Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rap- 

pin' some, 
An' danced the tables till their legs 

wuz gone, 
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on," 
Sez he, " but mejums lie so like all- 
split 
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. 
But, come now, ef you wun't confess 

to knowin', 
You 've some conjectures how the 

thing 's a-goin'." — 
"Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't 

never known 
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its 

own ; 
An' yit, eft ain't gut rusty in the jints, 
It 's safe to trust its say on certin pints : 
It knows the wind's opinions to a T, 
An' the wind settles wut the weather '11 

be." 
" I never thought a scion of our stock 
Could grow the wood to make a 

weathercock ; 
When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce 

more 'n a shaver, 
No airthly wind," sez he, " could make 

me waver ! " 
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an* 

forehead, 



Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword- 
hilt forrard.) — 

" Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, " I 
swow, 

When / wuz younger 'n wut you see 
me now, — 

Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's 
bonnet, 

Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedg- 
ment on it : 

But now I 'm gittin' on in life, I find 

It 's a sight harder to make up my 
mind, — 

Nor I don't often try tu, when events 

Will du it for me free of all expense. 

The moral question 's ollus plain 
enough, — 

It 's jes' the human-natur' side thet 's 
tough ; 

Wut 's best to think may n't puzzle me 
nor you, — 

The pinch comes in decidin' wut to 
du; 

Ef you read History, all runs smooth 
ez grease, 

Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n 
idees, — 

But come to make it, ez we must to- 
day, 

Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop 
the way : 

It 's easy fixin' things in facts an' rig- 
gers, — 

They can't resist, nor warn't brought 
up with niggers ; 

But come to try your the'ry on, — why, 
then 

Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant 
men 

Actin' ez ugly — " — "Smite 'em hip 
an' thigh !" 

Sez gran'ther, "and let every man- 
child die ! 

Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the 
Lord! 

Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the 
sword ! " — 

" Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole 
Judee, 

But you forgit how long it 's ben A. D. ; 

You think thet 's ellerkence, — I call it 
shoddy, 

A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor 
body; 



302 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 






I like the plain all-wool o' common- 
sense, 

Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelve- 
month hence. 

You took to follerin' where the Proph- 
ets beckoned, 

An', fust you knowed on, back come 
Charles the Second ; 

Now wut I want 's to hev all we gain 
stick, 

An' not to start Millennium too quick ; 

We hain't to punish only, but to keep, 

An' the cure 's gut to go a cent'ry 
deep." 

" Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' 
glue," 

Sez he, " an' so you'll find before you 
're thru ; 

Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly- 
shally 

Loses ez often wut 's ten times the 
vally. 

Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck 
gut split, 

Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over 
yit: 

Slav'ry 's your Charles, the Lord hez 
gin the exe — " — 

"Our Charles," sez I, "hez gut eight 
million necks. 

The hardest question ain't the black 
man's right, 

The trouble is to 'mancipate the white ; 

One 's chained in body an' can be sot 
free, 

But t'other 's chained in soul to an 
idee : 

It 's a long job, but we shall worry thru 
it ; • 

Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must 
du it." 

" Hosee," sez he, " I think you 're 
goin' to fail : 

The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the 
tail; 

This 'ere rebellion 's nothin' but the 
rettle, — 

You '11 stomp on thet an' think you 've 
won the bettle ; 

It 's Slavery thet 's the fangs an' think- 
in' head, 

An' ef you want selvation, cresh it 
dead, — 

An' cresh it suddin, or you '11 larn by 
waitin' 



Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to 

debatin' ! — 
"God's truth!" sez I, —"an' ef / 

held the club, 
An' knowed jes' where to strike, — 

but there 's the rub ! " — 
" Strike soon," sez he, " or you '11 be 

deadly ailin', — 
Folks thet 's afeared to fail are sure o' 

failin' ; 
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet 

believe 
He '11 settle things they run away an' 

leave ! " 
He brought his foot down fercely, ez 

he spoke. 
An' give me sech a startle thet I woke. 



No. VII. 

LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIG- 
LOW. 

PRELIMINARY NOTE. 

[It is with feelings of the liveliest 
pain that we inform our readers of the 
death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, 
A. M., which took place suddenly, by 
an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon 
of Christmas day, 1862. Our venera- 
ble friend (for so we may venture to 
call him, though we never enjoyed the 
high privilege of his personal acquaint- 
ance) was in his eighty-fourth year, 
having been born June 12, 1779, at 
Pigsgusset Precinct (now West Jeru- 
sha) in the then District of Maine. 
Graduated with distinction at Hubville 
College in 1805, he pursued his theo- 
logical studies with the late Reverend 
Preserved Thacker, D. D., and was 
called to the charge of the First So- 
ciety in Jaalam in 1809, where he re- 
mained till his death. 

" As an antiquary he has probably 
left no superior, if, indeed, an equal," 
writes his friend and colleague, the 
Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, to 
whom we are indebted for the above 
facts ; " in proof of which I need only 
allude to his 'History of Jaalam, 
Genealogical, Topographical, and Ec- 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



30? 



clesiastical,' 1849, which has won him 
an eminent and enduring place in our 
more solid and useful literature. It is 
only to be regretted that his intense 
application to historical studies should 
have so entirely withdrawn him from 
the pursuit of poetical composition, for 
which he was endowed by Nature with 
a remarkable aptitude.^ His well-known 
hymn, beginning, ' With clouds of care 
encompassed round,' has been attrib- 
uted in some collections to the late 
President Dwight, and it is hardly pre- 
sumptuous to affirm that the simile of 
the rainbow in the eighth stanza would 
do no discredit to that polished pen." 

We regret that we have not room at 
present for the whole of Mr. Hitch- 
cock's exceedingly valuable communi- 
cation. We hope to lay more liberal 
extracts from it before our readers at 
an early day. A summary of its con- 
tents will give some notion of its im- 
portance and interest. It contains : 
1st, A biographical sketch of Mr. Wil- 
bur, with notices of his predecessors in 
the pastoral office, and of eminent cler- 
ical contemporaries ; 2d, An obituary 
of deceased, from the Punkin- Falls 
" Weekly Parallel " ; 3d, A list of his 
printed and manuscript productions 
and of projected works ; 4th, Personal 
anecdotes and recollections, with speci- 
mens of table-talk ; 5th, A tribute to 
his relict, Mrs. Dorcas (Pilcox) Wil- 
bur ; 6th, A list of graduates fitted for 
different colleges by Mr. Wilbur, with 
biographical memoranda touching the 
more distinguished ; 7th, Concerning 
learned, charitable, and other societies, 
of which Mr. Wilbur was a member, 
and of those with which, had his life 
been prolonged, he would doubtless 
have been associated, with a complete 
catalogue of such Americans as have 
been Fellows of the Royal Society ; 
8th, A brief summary of Mr. Wilbur's 
latest conclusions concerning the Tenth 
Horn of the Beast in its special appli- 
cation to recent events for which the 
public, as Mr. Hitchcock assures us, 
have been waiting with feelings of live- 
ly anticipation ; 9th, Mr. Hitchcock's 
own views on the same topic; and, 



10th, A brief essay on the importance 
of local histories. It will be apparent 
that the duty of preparing Mr. Wil- 
bur's biography could not have fallen 
into more sympathetic hands. 

In a private letter with which the 
reverend gentleman has since favored 
us, he expresses the opinion that Mr. 
Wilbur's life was shortened by our 
unhappy civil war. It disturbed his 
studies, dislocated all his habitual asso- 
ciations and trains of thought, and un- 
settled the foundations of a faith, rather 
the result of habit than conviction, in 
the capacity of man for self-government. 
" Such has been the felicity of my life," 
he said to Mr. Hitchcock, on the very 
morning of the day he died, "that, 
through the divine mercy, I could al- 
ways say, Stimmum nee metuo diem, 
nee opto. It has been my habit, as you 
know, on every recurrence of this 
blessed anniversary, to read Milton's 
' Hymn of the Nativity' till its sublime 
harmonies so dilated my soul and quick- 
ened its spiritual sense that I seemed to 
hear that other song which gave assur- 
ance to the shepherds that there was 
One who would lead them also in green 
pastures and beside the still waters. 
But to-day I have been unable to think 
of anything but that mournful text, ' I 
came not to send peace, but a sword,' 
and, did it not smack of pagan pre- 
sumptuousness, could almost wish I 
had never lived to see this day." 

Mr. Hitchcock also informs us that 
his friend "lies buried in the Jaalam 
graveyard, under a large red-cedar 
which he specially admired. A neat 
and substantial monument is to be 
erected over his remains, with a Latin 
epitaph written by himself; for he was 
accustomed to say, pleasantly, 'that 
there was at least one occasion in a 
scholar's life when he might show the 
advantages of a classical training.' " 

The following fragment of a letter 
addressed to us, and apparently in- 
tended to accompany Mr. Biglow's 
contribution to the present number, 
was found upon his table after his de- 
cease. — Editors Atlantic Month- 
ly.] 



304 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



TO THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM, 24th Dec, 1862. 

Respected Sirs, — The infirm state 
of my bodily health would be a suffi- 
cient apology for not taking up the pen 
at this time, wholesome as I deem it for 
the mind to apricate in the shelter of 
epistolary confidence, were it not that a 
considerable, I might even say a large, 
number of individuals in this parish ex- 
pect from their pastor some publick ex- 
pression of sentiment at this crisis. 
Moreover, Qui tacit us ardet magis 
ttritur. In trying times like these, the 
besetting sin of undisciplined minds is 
to seek refuge from inexplicable reali- 
ties in the dangerous stimulant of an- 
gry partisanship or the indolent narcot- 
ick of vague and hopeful vaticination : 
fortunamque suo temperat arbitrio. 
Both by reason of my age and my nat- 
ural temperament, I am unfitted for 
either. Unable to penetrate the in- 
scrutable judgments of God, I am more 
than ever thankful that my life has been 
prolonged till I could in some small 
measure comprehend His mercy. As 
there is no man who does not at some 
time render himself amenable to the 
one, — quum vix Justus sit securus, — 
so there is none that does not feel him- 
self in daily need of the other. 

I confess, I cannot feel, as some do, 
a personal consolation for the manifest 
evils of this war in any remote or con- 
tingent advantages that may spring 
from it. I am old and weak, I can bear 
little, and can scarce hope to see better 
days ; nor is it any adequate compensa- 
tion to know that Nature is old and 
strong and can bear much. Old men 
philosophize over the past, but the 
present is only a burthen and a weari- 
ness. The one lies before them like a 
placid evening landscape ; the other is 
full of the vexations and anxieties of 
housekeeping. It may be true enough 
that miscet ktzc illis, prohibetque Clo- 
tho fortuuam stare, but he who said it 
was fain at last to call in Atropos with 
her shears before her time ; and I can- 
not help selfishly mourning that the 



fortune of our Republick could not at 
least stand till my days were num- 
bered. 

Tibullus would find the origin of wars 
in the great exaggeration of riches, and 
does not stick to say that in the days 
of the beechen trencher there was 
peace. But averse as I am by nature 
from all wars, the more as they have 
been especially fatal to libraries, I 
would have this one go on till we are 
reduced to wooden platters again, rather 
than surrender the principle to deiend 
which it was undertaken. Though I 
believe Slavery to have been the cause 
of it, by so thoroughly demoralizing 
Northern politicks for its own purposes 
as to give opportunity and hope to trea- 
son, yet I would not have our thought 
and purpose diverted from their true 
object, — the maintenance of the idea of 
Government. We are not merely sup- 
pressing anjenormous riot, but contend- 
ing for the possibility of permanent 
order coexisting with democratical fick- 
leness ; and while I would not super- 
stitiously venerate form to the sacrifice 
of substance, neither would I forget 
that an adherence to precedent and 
prescription can alone give that con- 
tinuity and coherence under a demo- 
cratical constitution which are inherent 
in the person of a despotick monarch 
and the selfishness of an aristocratical 
class. Stet pro ratione voluntas is as 
dangerous in a majority as in a tyrant. 

I cannot allow the present production 
of my young friend to go out without a 
protest from me against a certain ex- 
tremeness in his views, more pardona- 
ble in the poet than the philosopher. 
While I agree with him, that the only 
cure for rebellion is suppression by 
force, yet I must animadvert upon 
certain phrases where I seem to see a 
coincidence with a popular fallacy on 
the subject of compromise. On the one 
hand there are those who do not see 
that the vital principle of Government 
and the seminal principle of Law can- 
not properly be made a subject of com- 
promise at all, and on the other those 
who are equally blind to the truth that 
without a compromise of individual 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



3°S 



opinions, interests, and even rights, no 
society would be possible. In medio 
tiitis>iimis. For my own part, I would 
gladly 



Ef I a song or two could n make 
Like rockets druv by their own burn- 
in', 
All leap an' light, to leave a wake 
Men's hearts an' faces skyward turn- 
in' ! — 
But, it strikes me, 't ain't jest the time 
Fer stringin' words with satisfaction : 
Wut 's wanted now 's the silent rhyme 
'Twixt upright Will an' downright 
Action. 

Words, ef you keep 'em, pay their keep, 

But gabble 's the short cut to ruin ; 
It 's gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheap 

At no rate, ef it henders doin' ; 
Ther' 's nothin' wuss, 'less 't is to set 

A martyr-prem'um upon jawrin' : 
Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet 

Their lids down on 'em with Fort 
Warren. 

'Bout long enough it "a ben discussed 

Who sot the magazine afire, 
An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust, 

'T would scare us more or blow us 
higher. 
D' ye s'pose the Gret Foreseer's plan 

Wuz settled fer him in town-meetin' ? 
Or thet ther' 'd ben no Fall o' Man, 

Ef Adam 'd on'y bit a sweetin' ? 

Oh, Jon'than, ef you want to be 

A rugged chap agin an' hearty, 
Go fer wutever '11 hurt Jeff D., 

Nut wut '11 boost up ary party. 
Here 's hell broke loose, an' we lay flat 

With half the univarse a-sineein', 
Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor Thet 

Stop squabblin' fer thegarding-ingin. 

It 's war we 're in, not politics ; 

It 's systems wrastlin' now, not 
parties ; 
An' victory in the eend '11 fix 

Where longest will an' truest heart is. 



An' wut 's the Guv'ment folks about ? 

Tryin' to hope ther' 's nothin' doin', 
An' look ez though they did n't doubt 

Sunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'. 

Ther' 's critters yit thet talk an' act 

Fer wut they call Conciliation ; 
They 'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract 
When they wuz madder than all 
Bashan. 
Conciliate ? it jest means be kicked, 
No metter how they phrase an' tone 
it; 
It means thet we 're to set down licked, 
Thet we 're poor shotes an' glad to 
own it ! 

A war on tick 's ez dear 'z the deuce, 

But it wun't leave no lastin' traces, 
Ez 't would to make a sneakin' truce 

Without no moral specie-basis : 
Ef green-backs ain't nut jest the cheese, 

I guess ther' 's evils thet 's ex- 
tremer, — 
Fer instance, — shinplaster idees 

Like them put out by Gov'nor Sey- 
mour. 

Last year, the Nation, at a word, 

When tremblin' Freedom cried to 
shield her, 
Flamed weldin' into one keen sword 

Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder : 
A splendid flash! — but how 'd the 
grasp 

With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? 
Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp. — 

Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally. 

More men ? More Man ! It 's there 
we fail ; 
Weak plans grow weaker yit by 
lengthenin' : 
Wut use in addin' to the tail, 
When it 's the head 's in need o' 
strengthenin' ? 
We wanted one thet felt all Chief 

From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', 
Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief 
In him an' us, ef earth went rockin' ! 

Ole Hick'ry w 7 ould n't ha' stood see- 
saw 
'Bout doin' things till they wuz done 
with, — 



3 o6 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



He 'd smashed the tables o' the Law 
In time o' need to load his gun with ; 

He could n't see but jest one side, — 
Ef his, 't wuz God's, an' thet wuz 
plenty ; 

An' so his " Forrards I " multiplied 
An army's fightin' weight by twenty. 

But this 'ere histin', creak, creak, creak, 

Your cappen's heart up with a der- 
rick, 
This tryin' to coax a lightnin'-streak 

Out of a half-discouraged hay-rick, 
This hangin' on mont' arter mont' 

Fer one sharp purpose 'mongst the 
twitter, — 
1 tell ye, it doos kind o' stunt 

The peth and spent of a critter. 

In six months where '11 the People be, 

Ef leaders look on revolution 
Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea, — 

Jest social el'ments in solution ? 
This weighin' things doos wal enough 

When war cools down, an' comes to 
writin' ; 
But while it's makin', the true stuff 

Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'. 

Democ'acy gives every man 

A right to be his own oppressor ; 
But a loose Gov'ment ain't the plan, 

Helpless ez spilled beans on a dres- 
ser : 
I tell ye one thing we might larn 

From them smart critters, the Seced- 
ers, — 
Ef bein' right's the fust consarn, 

The 'fore the-fust 's cast-iron leaders. 

But 'pears to me I see some signs 

Thet we 're a-goin' to use our senses : 
Jeffdruv us into these hard lines, 
An' ough' to bear his half th' ex- 
penses ; 
Slavery 's Secession's heart an* will, 
South, North, East, West, where'er 
you find it, 
An' ef it drors into War's mill, 

D' ye say them thunder-stones sha' 
n't grind it ? 

D' ye s'pose, ef Jeff giv him a lick, 
Ole Hick'ry 'd tried his head to sofn 



So 's 't would n't hurt thet ebony stick 
Thet 's made our side see stars so 
of'n? 
" No ! " he 'd ha' thundered, " on your 
knees, 
An' own one flag, one road to glory I 
Soft-heartedness, in times like these, 
Shows sof'ness in the upper story ! " 

An' why should we kick up a muss 

About the Pres'dunt's proclamation? 
It ain't a-goin' to lib'rate us, 

Ef we don't like emancipation : 
The right to be a cussed fool 

Is safe from all devices human, 
It 's common (ez a gin'l rule) 

To every critter born o' woman. 

So we 're all right, an' I, fer one, 

Don't think our cause '11 loseinvally 
By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun, 

An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally : 
Thank God, say I, fer even a plan 

To lift one human bein's level, 
Give one more chance to make a man, 

Or, anyhow, to spile a devil ! 

Not thet I 'm one thet much expec' 

Millennium by express to-morrer ; 
They will miscarry, — I rec'lec' 

Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer : 
Men ain't made angels in a day, 

No matter how you mould an' labor 
'em, — 
Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay 

With Abe so of'n ez with Abraham. 

The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing, 

An' wants the banns read right en- 
suin' ; 
But fact wun't noways wear the ring 

'Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin' : 
Though, arter all, Time's dial-plate 

Marks cent'ries with the minute- 
finger, 
An' Good can't never come tu late, 

Though it doos seem to try an' linger. 

An' come wut will, I think it 's grand 
Abe 's gut his will et last bloom-fur- 
naced 

In trial-flames till it '11 stand 
The strain o'bein' in deadly earnest: 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



307 



Thet 's wut we want, — we want to 

know 

The folks on our side hez the bravery 

To b'lieve ez hard, come weal, come 

woe, 

In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery. 

Set the two forces foot to foot, 
An' every man knows who '11 be win- 
ner. 
Whose faith in God hez ary root 

Thet goes down deeper than his din- 
ner : 
Then 't will be felt from pole to pole, 

Without no need o' proclamation, 
Earth's Biggest Country 's gut her soul 
An' risen up Earth's Greatest Na- 
tion ! 



No. VIII. 
KETELOPOTOMACHIA. 

PRELIMINARY NOTE. 

In the month of February, 1866, the 
editors of the "Atlantic Monthly" 
received from the Rev. Mr. Hitchcock 
of jaalam a letter enclosing the maca- 
ronic verses which follow, and promis- 
ing to send more, if more should be 
communicated. "They were rapped 
out on the evening of Thursday last 
past," he says, " by what claimed to 
be the spirit of my late predecessor in 
the ministry here, the Rev. Dr. Wil- 
bur, through the medium of a young 
man at present domiciled in my family. 
As to the possibility of such spiritual 
manifestations, or whether they be prop- 
erly so entitled, I express no opinion, as 
there is a division of sentiment on that 
subject in the parish, and many persons 
of the highest respectability in social 
standing entertain opposing views. 
The young man who was improved as 
a medium submitted himself to the ex- 
periment with manifest reluctance, and 
is still unprepared to believe in the 
authenticity of the manifestations. 
During his residence with me his de- 



portment has always been exemplary ; 
he has been constant in his attendance 
upon our family devotions and the pub- 
lic ministrations of the Word, and has 
more than once privately stated to me, 
that the latter had often brought him 
under deep concern of mind. The 
table is an ordinary quadrupedal one, 
weighing about thirty pounds, three 
feet seven inches and a half in height, 
four feet square on the top, and of 
beech or maple, I am not definitely pre- 
pared to say which. It had once be- 
longed to my respected predecessor, 
and had been, so far as I can learn upon 
careful inquiry, of perfectly regular and 
correct habits up to the evening in 
question. On that occasion the young 
man previously alluded to had been 
sitting with his hands resting carelessly 
upon it, while I read over to him at his 
request certain portions of my last 
Sabbath's discourse. On a sudden the 
^ rappings, as they are called, commenced 
J to render themselves audible, at first 
faintly, but in process of time more 
distinctly and with violent agitation of 
the table. The young man expressed 
himself both surprised and pained by 
the wholly unexpected, and, so far as 
he was concerned, unprecedented oc- 
currence. At the earnest solicitation, 
however, of several who happened to 
be present, he consented to go on with 
the experiment, and with the assistance 
of the alphabet commonly employed in 
similar emergencies, the following com- 
munication was obtained and written 
down immediately by myself. Whether 
any, and if so, how much weight should 
be attached to it, I venture no decision. 
That Dr. Wilbur had sometimes em- 
ployed his leisure in Latin versification 
I have ascertained to be the case, though 
all that has been discoveredof that na- 
ture among his papers consists of some 
fragmentary passages of a version into 
hexameters of portions of the Song of 
Solomon. These I had communicated 
about a week or ten days previous [ly] 
to the young gentleman who officiated 
as medium in the communication after- 
wards received. I have thus, I believe, 
stated all the material facts that hav« 



3 o8 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



any elucidative bearing upon this mys- 
terious occurrence." 

So far Mr. Hitchcock, who seems 
perfectly master of Webster's una- 
bridged quarto, and whose flowing style 
leads him into certain further expatia- 
tions for which we have not room. We 
have since learned that the young man 
he speaks of was a sophomore, put 
under his care during a sentence of 

rustication from College, where he 

had distinguished himself rather by 
physical experiments on the compara- 
tive power of resistance in window- 
glass to various solid substances, than 
in the more regular studies of the place. 
In answer to a letter of inquiry, the 
professor of Latin says, " There was no 
harm in the boy that I know of beyond 
his loving mischief more than Latin, 
nor can I think of any spirits likely to 
possess him except those commonly 
called animal. He was certainly not 
remarkable for his Latinity, but I see 
nothingin verses you enclose that would 
lead me to think them beyond his 
capacity, or the result of any special 
inspiration whether of beech or maple. 
Had that of birch been tried upon him 
earlier and more faithfully, the verses 
would perhaps have been better in 
quality and certainly in quantity." This 
exact and thorough scholar then goes 
on to point out many false quantities 
and barbarisms. It is but fair to say, 
however, that the author, whoever he 
was, seems not to have been unaware 
of some of them himself, as is shown 
by a great many notes appended to the 
verses as we received them, and purport- 
ing to be by Scaliger, Bentley and 
others, — among them the Esprit de 
Voltaire I These we have omitted as 
clearly meant to be humorous and alto- 
gether failing therein. 

Though entirely satisfied that the 
verses are altogether unworthy of Mr. 
Wilbur, who seems to have been a 
tolerable Latin scholar after the fashion 
of his day, yet we have determined to 
print them here partly as belonging to 
the r&s gestce of this collection, and 
partly as a warning to their putative 
author which may keep him from such 
indecorous pranks for the fu*ure. 



KETTELOPOTOMACHIA. 

P. Ovidii Nasonis carmen heroicum maca- 
ronicum perplexametrum, inter Getas getico 
more compostum, denuo per medium arden- 
tispiritualem, adjuvante mensa" diabolice 
obsessa, recuperatum, curaque To. Conradi 
Schwarzii umbrae, aliis necnon plurimis adju- 
vantibus, restitutum. 



Punctorum garretos colens et cellara 

Quinque, 
Gutteribus quae et gaudes sundayam 

abstingere frontem, 
Plerumque insidos solita fluitare liquore 
Tanglepedem quern homines appellant 

Di quoque rotgut, 
Pimpliidis, rubicundaque, Musa, O, 

bourbonolensque, & 

Fenianas rixas procul, alma, brogipo- 

tentis 
Patncii cyathos iterantis et horrida 

bella, 
Backos dum virides viridis Brigitta 

remittit, 
Linquens, eximios celebrem, da, Vir- 

ginienses 
Rowdes, praecipue et Te, heros alte, 

Polarde ! 10 

Insignes juvenesque, illo certamine 

lictos, 
Colemane, Tylere, nee vos oblivione 

relinquam. 

Ampla aquilae invictae fausto est sub 

tegmine terra, 
Backyfer, ooiskeo pollens, ebenoque 

bipede, 
Socors praesidum et altrix (denique 

quidruminantium), _ 15 

Duplefveorum uberrima ; illis et integre 

cordi est 
Deplere assidue et sine proprio incom- 

modo fiscum ; 
Nunc etiam placidum hoc opus in- 

victique secuti, 
Goosam aureos ni eggos voluissent im- 

mo necare 
Quae peperit, saltern ac de illis meliora 

merentem. 20 

Condidit hanc Smithius Dux, Cap- 

tinus inclytus ille 
Regis Ulyssae instar, docti arcum in- 
tendere longum ; 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



3©9 



Condidit ille Johnsmith, Virginiamque 

vocavit, 
Settledit autem Jacobus rex, nomine 

primus, 
Rascalis implens ruptis, blagardisque 

deboshtis, 25 

Militibusque ex Falstaffi legione fugatis 
Wenchisque illi quas poterant seducere 

nuptas ; 
Virgineum, ah, littus matronis talibus 

impar ! 
Progeniem stirpe ex hoc non sine stig- 

mate ducunt 
Multi sese qui jactant regum esse ne- 

potes : 30 

Haud omnes, Mater, genitos quae nu- 

per habebas 
Bello fortes, consilio cautos, virtute 

decoros, 
Jamque et habes, sparso si patrio in 

sanguine virtus, 
Mostrabisque iterum, antiquis sub as- 

tris reducta ! 
De illis qui upkikitant, dicebam, rum- 

pora tanta, 35 

Letcheris et Floydis magnisque Extra 

ordine Billis ; 
Est his prisca fides jurare et breakere 

wordum ; 
Poppere fellerum a tergo, aut stickere 

clam bowiknifo, 
Haud sane facinus, dignum sed victrice 

lauro ; 
Larrupere et nigerum, factum praestan- 

tius ullo : w 

Ast chlamydem piciplumatam, Icariam, 

flito et ineptam, 
4Tanko gratis induere, ilium et valido 

railo 
Insuper acri equitare docere est hos- 

pitio uti. 
Nescio an ille Polardus duplefveori- 

bus ortus, 
Sed reputo potius de radice poorwite- 

manorum ; 45 

Fortuiti proles, ni fallor, Tylerus erat_ 
Praesidis, omnibus ab Whiggis nomi- 

natus a poor cuss ; 
Et nobilem tertium evincit venerabile 

nomen. 
Ast animosi omnes bellique ad tympana 

ha ! ha ! 
Vociferant laeti, procul et si proelia, 
sive 5° 



Hostem incautum atsito possunt shoot- 

ere salvi ; 
Imperiique capaces, esset si stylus 

agmen, 
Pro dulci spoliabant et sine dangere 

fito. 
Prae ceterisque Polardus : si Secessia 

licta, 
Se nunquam licturum jurat, res et un- 
heardof, 55 

Verbo haesit, similisque audaci roosteri 

invicto, 
Dunghilli solitus rex pullos whoppere 

molles, 
Grantum, hirelingos stripes quique et 

splendida tollunt 

SIdera, et Yankos, territum et omnem 

sarsuit orbem. 

Usque dabant operam isti omnes, 

noctesque diesque, ^° 

Samuelem demulgere avunculum, id 

vero siccum ; 
Uberibus sed ejus, et horum est culpa, 

remotis, 
Parvam domi vaccam, nee mora mini- 
ma, quaerunt, 
Lacticarentem autem et droppam vix 

in die dantem ; 
Reddite avunculi, et exclamabant, red- 
dite pappam ! 65 

Polko ut consule, gemens, Billy im- 

murmurat Extra ; 
Echo respondit, thesauro ex vacuo, 

pappam ! 
Frustra explorant pocketa, ruber nare 

repertum ; 
Omcia expulsi aspiciunt rapta, et Para- 

disum 
Occlusum, viridesque haud illis nascere 
backos ; 70 

Stupent tunc oculis madidis spittantque 

silenter. 
Adhibere usu ast longo vires prorsus 

inepti, 
Si non ut qui grindeat axve trabemve 

revolvat, 
Virginiam excruciant totis nunc might- 

ibu' matrem : 
Non melius, puta, nono panis dimid- 
iumneest? 75 

Readere ibi non posse est casus com- 
moner ullo ; 
Tanto intentius imprimere est opus ergo 
statuta ; 



3io 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Nemo propterea pejor, melior, sine 

doubto, 
Obtineat qui contractum, si et postea 

rhino ; 
Ergo Polardus, si quis, inexsuperabilis 

heros, 80 

Colemanus impavidus nondum, atque 

in purpure natus 
Tylerus Iohanides celerisque in flito 

Nathaniel, 
Quisque optans digitos in tantum stick- 

ere pium, 
Adstant accincti impriraere aut perrum- 

pere leges : 
Quales os miserum rabidi tres asgre 

molossi, 85 

Quales aut dubium textum atra in veste 

ministri, 
Tales circumstabant nunc nostriinopes 

hoc job. 
Hisque Polardus voce canoro talia 

fatus : 
Primum autem, veluti est mos, praeceps 

quisque liquorat, 
Quisque et Nicotianum ingens quid 

inserit atrum, ^° 

Heroum nitidum decus et solamen avi- 

tum, 
Masticat ac simul altisonans, spittatque 

profuse : 
Quis de Virginia meruit prsestantius 

unquam? 
Quis se pro patria curavit impigre tu- 

tum? 
Speechisque articulisque hominum quis 

fortior ullus, 95 

Ingeminans pennae lickos et vulnera 

vocis ? _ 
Quisnam putidius (hie) sarsuit Yanki- 

nimicos, 
Ssepius aut dedit ultro datam et broke 

his parolam ? 
Mente inquassatus solidaque, tyranno 

minante, 
Horrisonis (hie) bombis mcenia et alta 

quatente, 10 ° 

Sese promptum (hie) jactans Yankos 

lickere centum, 
Atque ad lastum invictus non surrendi- 

dit unquam ? 
Ergo haud meddlite, posco, mique re- 

linquite (hie) hoc job, 
Si non knifumque enormem mos- 

trat spittatque tremendus. 



Dixerat : ast alii reliquorant et sine 

pauso 105 

Pluggos incumbunt maxillis, uterque 

vicissim 
Certamine innocuo valde madidam 

inquinit assem : 
Tylerus autem, dumque liquorat aridus 

hostis, 
Mirum aspicit duplumque bibentem, 

astante Lyaeo ; 
Ardens impavidusque edidit tamen im- 

pia verba ; no 

Duplum quamvis te aspicio, esses atque 

viginti, 
Mendacem dicerem totumque (hie) 

thrasherem acervum ; 
Nempe et thrasham, doggonatus (hie) 

sim nisi faxem ; 
Lambastabo omnes catawompositer- 

(hic)-que chawam ! 
Dixit et impulsus Ryeo ruitur bene ti- 

tus, "5 

I Hi nam gravidum caput et laterem 

habet in hatto. 
Hunc inhiat titubansque Polardus, 

optat et ilium 
Stickere inermem, pfotegit autem rite 

Lyaeus, 
Et pronos geminos, oculis dubitantibus, 

heros 
Cernit et irritus hostes, dumque excogi- 

tat utrum iao 

Primum inpitchere, corruit, inter utros- 

que recumbit, 
Magno asino similis nimio sub pondere 

quassus : 
Colemanus hosmoestus, tristeruminans- 

que solamen, 
Inspicit hiccans, circumspittat terque 

cubantes ; 
Funereisque his ritibus humidis inde 
solutis, !25 

Sternitur, invalidusque illis superincidit 

infans ; 
Hos sepelit somnus et snorunt corniso- 

nantes, 
Watchmanus inscios ast calybooso 

deinde reponit. 



No. IX. 

[The Editors of the "Atlantic " have 
received so many letters of inquiry con- 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 



3" 



cerning the literary remains of the late 
Mr. Wilbur, mentioned by his colleague 
and successor, Rev. Jeduthan Hitch- 
cock, in a communication from which 
we made some extracts in our number 
for February, 1863, and have been so 
repeatedly urged to print some part of 
them for the gratification of the public, 
that they felt it their duty at least to 
make some effort to satisfy so urgent a 
demand. They have accordingly care- 
fully examined the papers intrusted to 
them, but find most of the productions 
of Mr. Wilbur's pen so fragmentary, 
and even chaotic, written as they are on 
the backs of letters in an exceedingly 
cramped chirography, — here a memo- 
randum for a sermon ; there an obser- 
vation of the weather ; now the meas- 
urement of an extraordinary head of 
cabbage, and then of the cerebral ca- 
pacity of some reverend brother de- 
ceased ; a calm inquiry into the state 
of modern literature, ending in a method 
of detecting if milk be impoverished 
with water, and the amount thereof; 
one leaf beginning with a genealogy, to 
be interrupted half-way down with an 
entry that the brindle cow had calved, — 
that any attempts at selection seemed 
desperate. His only complete work, 
" An Enquiry concerning the Tenth 
Horn of the Beast, " even in the abstract 
of it given by Mr. Hitchcock, would, 
by a rough computation of the printers, 
fill five entire numbers of our journal, 
and as he attempts, by a new applica- 
tion of decimal fractions, to identify it 
with the Emperor Julian, seems hardly 
of immediate concern to the general 
reader. Even the Table-Talk, though 
doubtless originally highly interesting 
in the domestic circle, is so largely 
made up of theological discussion and 
matters of local or preterite interest, 
that we have found it hard to extract 
anything that would at all satisfy ex- 
pectation. But, in order to silence 
further inquiry, we subjoin a few pas- 
sages as illustrations of its general char- 
acter.] 

I think I could go near to be a per- 
fect Christian if I were always a visitor, 



as I have sometimes been, at the house 
of some hospitable friend. I can show 
a great deal of self-denial where the 
best of everything is urged upon me 
with kindly importunity. It is not so 
very hard to turn the other cheek for a 
kiss. And when I meditate upon the 
pains taken for our entertainment in this 
life, on the endless variety of seasons, 
of human character and fortune, on the 
costliness of the hangings and furni- 
ture of our dwelling here, I sometimes 
feel a singular joy in looking upon my- 
self as God's guest, and cannot but be- 
lieve that we should all be wiser and 
happier, because more grateful, if we 
were always mindful of our privilege 
in this regard. And should we not rate 
more cheaply any honor that men could 
pay us, if we remembered that every 
day we sat at the table of the Great 
King? Yet must we not forget that 
we are in strictest bonds His servants 
also ; for there is no impiety so abject 
as that which expects to be dead-headed 
(ut ita dicani) through life, and which, 
calling itself trust in Providence, is in 
reality asking Providence to trust us 
and taking up all our goods on false 
pretences. It is a wise rule to take the 
world as we find it, not always to leave 
it so. 

It has often set me thinking when I 
find that I can always pick up plenty 
of empty nuts under my shagbark-tree. 
The squirrels know them by their 
lightness, and I have seldom seen one 
with the marks of their teeth in it. 
What a school-house is the world, if 
our wits would only not play truant ! 
For I observe that men set most store 
by forms and symbols in proportion as 
they are mere shells. It is the outside 
they want and not the kernel. What 
stores of such do not many, who in 
material things are as shrewd as the 
squirrels, lay up for the spiritual win- 
ter-supply of themselves and their chil- 
dren ! I have seen churches that seemed 
to me garners of these withered nuts, 
for it is wonderful how prosaic is the 
apprehension of symbols by the minds 
of most men. It is not one sect nor 
another, but all, who, like the dog of 



312 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



the fable, have let drop the spiritual 
substance of symbols for their material 
shadow. If one attribute miraculous 
virtues to mere holy water, that beau- 
tiful emblem of inward purification at 
the door of God's house, another can- 
not comprehend the significance of bap- 
tism withoutbeingducked over head and 
ears in the liquid vehicle thereof. 

[Perhaps a word of historical com- 
ment may be permitted here. My late 
revered predecessor was, I would 
humbly affirm, as free from prejudice 
as falls to the lot of the most highly 
favoredindividualsof ourspecies. To be 
sure, I have heard him say that, "what 
were called strong prejudices, were in 
fact only the repulsion of sensitive or- 
ganizations from that moral and even 
physical effluvium through which some 
natures by providential appointment, 
like certain unsavory quadrupeds, gave 
warning of their neighborhood. Better 
ten mistaken suspicions of this kind 
than one close encounter." This he 
said somewhat in heat, on being ques- 
tioned as to his motives for always re- 
fusing his pulpit to those itinerant pro- 
fessors of vicarious benevolence who 
end their discourses by taking up a 
collection. But at another time I re- 
member his saying, "that there was 
one large thing which small minds al- 
ways found room for, and that was great 
prejudices." This, however, by the 
way. The statement which I purposed 
to make was simply this. Down to 
A. D. 1830, Jaalam had consisted of a 
single parish, with one house set apart 
for religious services. In that year 
the foundations of a Baptist Society 
were laid by the labors of Elder Joash 
Q. Balcom, 2d. As the members of 
the new body were drawn from the 
First Parish, Mr. Wilbur was for a 
time considerably exercised in mind. 
He even went so far as on one occasion 
to follow the reprehensible practice of 
the earlier Puritan divines in choosing 
a punning text, and preached from He- 
brews xiii. 9 : "Be not carried about 
with divers and strange doctrines." 
He afterwards, in accordance with one 



of his own maxims, — "to get a dead 
injury out of the mind as soon as is de- 
cent, bury it, and then ventilate," — in 
accordance with this maxim, I say, he 
lived on very friendly terms with Rev. 
Shearjashub Scrimgour, present pastor 
of the Baptist Society in Jaalam. Yet 
1 think it was never unpleasing to him 
that the church edifice of that society 
(though otherwise a creditable specimen 
of architecture) remained without a 
bell, as indeed it does to this day. So 
much seemed necessary to do away with 
any appearance of acerbity toward a 
respectable community of professing 
Christians, which might be suspected 
in the conclusion of the above para- 
graph. - J. H.] 

In lighter moods he was not averse 
from an innocent play upon words. 
Looking up from his newspaper one 
morning as I entered his study he said, 
" When I read a debate in Congress, I 
feel as if I were sitting at the feet of 
Zeno in the shadow of the Portico." 
On my expressing a natural surprise, 
he added, smiling, " Why, at such 
times the only view which honorable 
members give me of what goes on in 
the world is through their intercalum- 
niations." I smiled at this after a mo- 
ment's reflection, and he added gravely, 
"The most punctilious refinement of 
manners is the only salt that will keep 
a democracy from stinking ; and what 
are we to expect from the people, if 
their representatives set them such les- 
sons? Mr. Everett's whole life has 
been a sermon from this text. There 
was, at least, this advantage in duel- 
ling, that it set a certain limit on the 
tongue." In this connection, I may be 
permitted to recall a playful remark of 
his upon another occasion. The pain- 
ful divisions in the First Parish, A. D. 
1844, occasioned by the wild notions in 
respect to the rights of (what Mr. Wil- 
bur, so far as concerned the reasoning 
faculty, always called) the unfairer part 
of creation, put forth by Miss Parthe- 
nia Almira Fitz, are too well known to 
need more than a passing allusion. It 
was during these heats, long since hap- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



3i3 



pily allayed, that Mr. Wilbur remarked 
that "the Church had more trouble in 
dealing with one ^'resiarch than with 
twenty ^resiarchs," and that the men's 
conscia recti, or certainty of being 
right, was nothing to the women's. 

When I once asked his opinion of a 
poetical composition on which I had 
expended no little pains, he read it at- 
tentively, and then remarked, " Unless 
one's thought pack more neatly in 
verse than in prose, it is wiser to re- 
frain. Commonplace gains nothing by 
being translated into rhyme, for it is 
something which no hocus-pocus can 
transubstantiate with the real presence 
of living thought. You entitle your 
piece, ' My Mother's Grave,' and ex- 
pend four pages of useful paper in de- 
tailing your emotions there. But, my 
dear sir, watering does not improve the 
quality of ink, even though you should 
do it with tears. To publish a sorrow 
to Tom, Dick, and Harry is in some 
sort to advertise its unreality, for I have 
observed in my intercourse with the 
afflicted that the deepest grief instinct- 
ively hides its face with its hands and 
is silent. If your piece were printed, I 
have no doubt it would be popular, for 
people like to fancy that they feel much 
better than the trouble of feeling. I 
would put all poets on oath whether 
they have striven to say everything 
they possibly could think of, or to leave 
out all they could not help saying. In 
your own case, my worthy young friend, 
what you have written is merely a de- 
liberate exercise, the gymnastic of sen- 
timent. For your excellent maternal 
relative is still alive, and is to take tea 
with me this evening, D. V. Beware 
of simulated feeling ; it is hypocrisy's 
first cousin ; it is especially dangerous 
to a preacher ; for he who says one day, 
'Go to, let me seem to be pathetic,' 
may be nearer than he thinks to saying, 
* Go to, let me seem to be virtuous, or 
earnest, or under sorrow for sin.' De- 
pend upon it, Sappho loved her verses 
more sincerely than she did Phaon, 
and Petrarch his sonnets better than 
Laura, who was indeed but his poetical 



stalking-horse. After you shall have 
once heard that muffled rattle of the 
clods on the coffin-lid of an irreparable 
loss, you will grow acquainted with a 
pathos that will make all elegies hate- 
ful. When I was of your age, I also 
for a time mistook my desire to write 
verses for an authentic call of my na- 
ture in that direction. But one day as 
I was going forth for a walk, with my 
head full of an ' Elegy on the Death of 
Flirtilla,' and vainly groping after u 
rhyme for lily that should not be silly 
or chilly, I saw my eldest boy Homer 
busy over the rain-water hogshead, in 
that childish experiment at partheno- 
genesis, the changing a horse-hair into 
a water-snake. An immersion of six 
weeks showed no change in the obsti- 
nate filament. Here was a stroke of 
unintended sarcasm. Had I not been 
doing in my study precisely what my 
boy was doing out of doors ? Had my 
thoughts any more chance of coming to 
life by being submerged in rhyme than 
his hair by soaking in water ? I burned 
my elegy and took a course of Ed- 
wards on the Will. People do not 
make poetry ; it is made out of them 
by a process for which I do not find 
myself fitted. Nevertheless, the writ- 
ing of verses is a good rhetorical exer- 
citation, as teaching us what to shun 
most carefully in prose. For prose be- 
witched is like window-glass with bub- 
bles in it, distorting what it should 
show with pellucid veracity." 

It is unwise to insist on doctrinal 
points as vital to religion. The Bread 
of Life is wholesome and sufficing in 
itself, but gulped down with these kick- 
shaws cooked up by theologians, it is 
apt to produce an indigestion, nay, even 
at last an incurable dyspepsia of scep- 
ticism. 

One of the most inexcusable weak- 
nesses of Americans is in signing their 
names to what are called credentials. 
But for my interposition, a person who 
shall be nameless would have taken 
from this town a recommendation for 
an office of trust subscribed by the se- 
lectmen and all the voters of both par- 



3M 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



ties, ascribing to him as many good 
qualities as if it had been his tomb- 
stone. The excuse was that it would 
be well for the town to be rid of him, 
as it would erelong be obliged to main- 
tain him. I would not refuse my name 
to modest merit, but I would be as cau- 
tious as in signing a bond. [I trust I 
shall be subjected to no imputation of 
unbecoming vanity, if I mention the 
fact that Mr. W. indorsed my own 
qualifications as teacher of the high- 
school at Pequash Junction. J. H.J 
"When I see a certificate of character 
with everybody's name to it, I regard 
it as a letter of introduction from the 
Devil. Never give a man your name 
unless you are willing to trust him with 
your reputation. 

There seem now-a-days to be two 
sources of literary inspiration, — ful- 
ness of mind and emptiness of pocket. 

I am often struck, especially in read- 
ing Montaigne, with the obviousness 
and familiarity of a great writer's 
thoughts, and the freshness they gain 
because said by him. The truth is, we 
mix their greatness with all they say 
and give it our best attention. Johan- 
nes Faber sic cogitavit, would be no 
enticing preface to a book, but an ac- 
credited name gives credit like the sig- 
nature of a note of hand.^ It is the ad- 
vantage of fame that it is always priv- 
ileged to take the world by the button, 
and a thing is weightier for Shake- 
speare's uttering it by the whole amount 
of his personality. 

It is singular how impatient men are 
with overpraise of others, how patient 
with overpraise of themselves ; and yet 
the one does them no injury, while the 
other may be their ruin. 

People are apt to confound mere alert- 
ness of mind with attention. The one 
is but the flying abroad of all the 
faculties to the open doors and windows 
at every passing rumor ; the other is 
the concentration of every one of them 
in a single focus, as in the alchemist 
over his alembic at the moment of ex- 



pected projection. Attention is the 
stuff that memory is made of, and 
memory is accumulated genius. 

Do not look for the Millennium as 
imminent. One generation is apt to get 
all the wear it can out of the cast 
clothes of the last, and is always sure 
to use up every paling of the old fence 
that will hold a nail in building the 
new. 

You suspect a kind of vanity in my 
genealogical enthusiasm. Perhaps you 
are right ; but it is a universal foible. 
Where it does not show itself in a per- 
sonal and private way, it becomes 
public and gregarious. We flatter our- 
selves in the Pilgrim Fathers, and the 
Virginian offshoot of a transported con- 
vict swells with the fancy of a cavalier 
ancestry. Pride of birth, I have no- 
ticed, takes two forms. One compla- 
cently traces himself up to a coronet ; 
another, defiantly, to a lapstone. The 
sentiment is precisely the same in both 
cases, only that one is the positive and 
the other the negative pole of it. 

Seeing a goat the other day kneeling 
in order to graze with less trouble, it 
seemed to me a type of the common 
notion of prayer. Most people are 
ready enough to go down on their knees 
for material blessings, but how few for 
those spiritual gifts which alone are an 
answer to our orisons, if we but knew 
it! 

Some people, now-a-days, seem to 
have hit upon a new moralization of the 
moth and the candle. They would 
lock up the light of Truth, lest poor 
Psyche should put it out in her effort 
to draw nigh to it. 



No. X. 

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE 
EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

Dear Sir, — Your letter come to han\ 
Requestin' me to please be funny ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



3i5 



But I ain't made upon a plan 
Thet knows wut's comin', gall or 
honey : 
Ther' 's times the world doos look so 
queer, 
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em ; 
An' then agin, for half a year, 

No preacher 'thout a call 's more 
solemn. 

You 're 'n want o' sun thin' light an' 
cute, 

Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingle- 
ish, 
An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit, 

I 'd take an' citify my English. 
I ken write long- tailed, ef I please, — 

But when I 'm jokin', no, I thankee ; 
Then, 'fore I know it, my idees 

Run helter-skelter into Yankee. 

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, 

I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin' ; 
The parson's books, life, death, an' 
time 
Hev took some trouble with my 
schoolin' ; 
Nor th' airth don't git put out with me, 
Thet love her 'z though she wuz a 
woman ; 
Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree 
But half forgives my bein' human. 

An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way 
OF farmers hed when 1 wuz younger ; 
Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay, 
While book-froth seems to whet your 
hunger ; 
For puttin' in a downright lick 
'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few 
can metch it, 
An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick 
Ez stret-grained hickory doos a 
hetchet. 

But when I can't, I can't, thet 's all, 

For Natur'won't put up with gullin' ; 
Idees you hev to shove an' haul 

Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein : 
Live thoughts ain't sent for ; thru all 
rifts 
O' sense they pour an' resh ye on- 
wards, 



Like rivers when south-lym' drifts 
Feel thet th' old airth 's a-wheelin f 
sunwards. 

Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin* 
thick 
Ez office-seekers arter 'lection, 
An' into ary place 'ould stick 

Without no bother nor objection ; 
But sence the war my thoughts hang 
back 
Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em, 
An' subs'tutes, — they don't never lack, 
But then they '11 slope afore you 've 
mist 'em. 

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz; 

I can't see wut there is to hender, 
An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz, 

Like bumblebees agin a winder ; 
'Fore these times come, in all airth's 
row, 

Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head 



but 



111, 



Where I could hide an' think, 
now 
It 's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'. 

Where 's Peace ? I start, some clear- 
blown night, 
When gaunt stone walls grow numb 
an' number, 
An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' 
white, 
Walk the col' starlight into summer ; 
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell 
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer 
Than the last smile thet strives to tell 
O' love gone heavenward in its shim- 
mer. 

I hev ben gladder o' sech things 

Than cocks o' spring or beeso' clover, 
They filled my heart with livin' springs, 

But now they seem to freeze 'em 
over; 
Sights innercent ez babes on knee, 

Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me 

To rile me more with thoughts o* 
battle. 

In-doors an' out by spells I try ; 
Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel 
goin', 



3i6 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



But leaves my natur' stiff and dry 
Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin' ; 

An' her jes' keepin' on the same, 
Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin', 

An' findin' nary thing to blame, 
Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 

Snow-flakes come whisperm' on the 
pane 
The charm makes blazin' logs so 
pleasant, 
But I can't hark to wutthey 're sayV, 
With Grant or Sherman oilers pres- 
ent ; 
The chimbleys shudder in the gale, 
Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flap- 
pin' 
Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale 
To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. 

Under the yaller-pines I house, 

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet- 
scented, 
An' hear among their furry boughs 

The baskin' west-wind purr con- 
tented, 
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low 

Ez distant bells thet ring formeetin', 
The wedged wiP geese their bugles blow, 

Further an' further South retreatin'. 

Or up the slippery knob I strain 

An' see a hundred hills like islan's 
Lift their blue woods in broken chain 

Out o' the sea o' snowy silence ; 
The farm-smokes, sweetes* sight on 
airth, 

Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin' 
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth 

Of empty places set me thinkin'. 

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin* snows, 

An' rattles di'mon's from his granite ; 
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, 

An' into psalms or satires ran it ; 
But he, nor all the rest thet once 

Started my blood to country-dances, 
Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce 

Thet hain't no use for dreams an f 
fancies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street 
I hear the drummers makin' riot, 



An' I set thinkin* o* the feet 
Thet follered once an' now are 
quiet, — 
White feet ez snowdrops innercent, 
Thet never knowed the paths o' 
Satan, 
Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet 
won't, 
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee ? 

Did n't I love to see 'em growin', 
Three likely lads ez wal could be, 

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu 
knowin' ? 
I set an' look into the blaze 

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps 
climbin', 
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, 

An* half despise myself for rhymin'. 

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' 
truth 
On War's red techstone rang true 
metal, 
Who ventered life an' love an' youth 

For the gret prize o' death in battle ? 
To him who, deadly hurt, agen 

Flashed on afore the charge's thun- 
der, 
Tippin' with fire the bolt of men 

Thet rived the Rebel line asunder ? 
'T ain't right to hev the young go fust, 
All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, 
Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust 
To try an' make b'lieve fill their 
places : 
Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, 
Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never 
fay in, 
An* thet world seems so fur from this 
Lef ' for us loafers to grow gray in ! 

My eyes cloud up for rain ; my mouth 

Will take to twitchin' roun' the cor- 
ners ; 
I pity mothers, tu, down South, 

For all they sot among the scorners : 
I 'd sooner take my chance to stan' 

At Jedgment where your meanest 
slave is, 
Than at God's bar hoi' up a han' 

Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis \ 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



3i7 



Come, Peace ! not like a mourner 
bowed 
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, 
But proud, to meet a people proud, 

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted ! 
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt, 
An' step thet proves ye Victory's 
daughter ! 
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt 
Like shipwrecked men's on raPs for 
water. 

Come, while our country feels the lift 

Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, 
An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift 

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards ! 
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, 
when 

They kissed their cross with lips thet 
quivered, 
An' bring fair wages for brave men, 

A nation saved, a race delivered I 



No. XI. 

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH 
IN MARCH MEETING. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY. 

JAALAM, April 5, 1866. 

My dear Sir, — 

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you 're 
some dearer than wut you wuz, I en- 
close the deffrence) I dunno ez I know 
jest how to interdroce this las' perduc- 
tion of my mews, ez Parson Willber 
alius called 'em, which is goin' to be 
the last an' stay the last onless sunthin' 
pertikler sh'd interfear which I don't 
expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ez 
pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence 
Mr. Wilbur's disease I hev n't hed no 
one thet could dror out my talons. He 
ust to kind o' wine me up an' set the 
penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I 
seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I 
run down, but the noo minister ain't 
of the same brewin' nor I can't seem 
Jo git ahold of no kine of huming nater 



in him but sort of slide rite off as you 
du on the eedge of a mow. Minny- 
steeril natur is wal enough an' a site 
better 'n most other kines I know on, 
but the other sort sech as Welbor hed 
wuz of the Lord's makin' an' naterally 
more wonderfle an' sweet tastin' least- 
ways to me so fur as heerd from. He 
used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile 
athout sayin' nothin' in pertickler an' I 
misdoubt he did n't set so much by the 
sec'nd Ceres as wut he done by the 
Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine 
misgive him of a sort of fallin' off in 
spots. He wuz as outspoken as a nor- 
wester he wuz, but I tole him I hoped 
the fall wuz from so high up thet a fel- 
ler could ketch a good many times fust 
afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I 
see Jethro C. Swett from the meetin' 
house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' 
took up for dead but he 's alive now an' 
spry as wut you be. Turnin' of it over 
I recclected how they ust to put wut 
they called Argymunce onto the frunts 
of poymns, like poorches afore housen 
whare you could rest ye a spell whilst 
you wuz concludin' whether you 'd go 
in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz dar- 
ters, though I most alius found it the 
best plen to go in fust an' think after- 
wards an' the gals likes it best tu. I 
dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts 
to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I 
guess they never du but tha must alius 
be a B'ginnin' to everythin' athout it is 
Etarnity so I '11 begin rite away an' 
anybody may put it afore any of his 
speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I 
don't claim no paytent. 

THE ARGYMUNT. 

Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. 
Begins by talkin' about himself: thet 's 
jest natur an' most gin'ally alius pleas- 
in', I b'leeve I 've notist, to one of the 
cumpany, an' thet 's more than wut you 
can say of most speshes of talkin'. 
Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of 
the orjunce by lettin' 'em gether from 
wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop 
thet they air about East, A one, an' no 
mistaik, skare 'em up an' take 'em as 



3i8 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



they rise. Spring interdooced with a 
fiew approput flours. Speach finally 
begins witch nobuddy need n't feel 
obolygated to read as I never read 'em 
an' never shell this oneag'in. Subjick 
staited ; expanded ; delayted ; extended. 
Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so 's 
to avide all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks ; 
continooed ; kerried on ; pushed har- 
der ; kind o' gin out. Subjick re- 
started ; dielooted ; stirred up permis- 
coous. Pump ag'in. Gits back to 
where he sot out. Can't seem to stay 
thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaward's 
hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his 
subjick ; stretches it ; turns it ; folds 
it ; onfolds it ; folds it ag'in so 's 't no 
one can't find it. Argoos with an im- 
edginary bean thet ain't aloud to say 
nothin' in repleye. Gives him a real 
good dressin' an' is settysfide he 's rite. 
Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' 
to git into his head. Gives it up. Hez 
to stait his subjick ag'in ; doos it back- 
'ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, 
bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on 
it. Concloods. Concloodsmore. Reads 
some xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin' 
round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide 
it. Wun't du. Misstates it. Can't 
conjectur' no other plawsable way of 
staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. 
Finely concloods to conclood. Yeels 
the flore. 

You kin spall an' punctooate thet as 
you please. I alius do, it kind of puts 
a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere 
funattick spellin' doos an' takes 'em 
out of the prissen dress they wair k the 
Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out 
of 'em it 's the main thing, an' wut 
they wuz made for ; wut 's left 's jest 
pummis. 

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, 
sez he, " Hosee," sez he, "in littery- 
toor the only good thing is Natur. It 's 
amazin' hard to come at," sez he, " but 
onct git it an' you 've gut everythin'. 
Wut 's the sweetest small on airth ? " 
sez he. " Noomone hay," sez I, pooty 
bresk, for he wuz alius hankerin' round 
in hayin . " Nawthin' of the kine," 
sez he. " My leetle Huldy's breath," 
sez I ag'in. " You 're a good lad," sez 



he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he 
lost a babe onct nigh about her age, — 
" You 're a good lad ; but 't ain't thet 
nuther," sez he. " Ef you want to 
know," sez he, " open your winder of a 
mornin' et ary season, and you '11 lam 
thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh 
air, fresh air" sez he, emphysizin', 
" athout no mixtur. Thet 's wut / call 
natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs 
and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a 
whiff on 't," sez he. I often think o' 
thet when I set down to write, but the 
winders air so ept to git stuck, an' 
breakin' a pane costs sunthin'. 
Yourn for the last time, 

Nut to be continooed, 

Hosea Biglow. 



I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should 

plen it, 
I could git boosted into th' House or 

Sennit, — 
Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's 

so plenty, 
'Nablin' one man to du the talk o* 

twenty ; 
I 'm one o' them thet finds it ruther 

hard 
To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, 
An' maysure off, accordin' to demand, 
The piece-goods el'kence that I keep 

on hand, 
The same ole pattern runnin' thru an* 

thru, 
An' nothin' but the customer thet's 

new. 
I sometimes think, the furder on I go, 
Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, 
An' when I 've settled my idees, I find 
'T warn't I sheered most in makin' up 

my mind ; 
'T wuz this an' thet an* t' other thing 

thet done it, 
Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor 

shun it. 
Mos' folks go off so quick now in dis- 
cussion, 
All th' ole flint locks seems altered to 

percussion, 
Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



319 



Thet I 'm percussion changin' back to 

flint ; 
Wal, ef it 's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, 
For th' ole Queen's-arm hez this per- 

tickler merit, — 
It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' 

margin 
To kin' o' make its will afore discharg- 

in' : 
I can't make out but jest one ginnle 

rule, — 
No man need go an' make himself a 

fool, 
Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet 

can't bear 
Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. 

Ez I wuz say'n', I hain't no chance to 

speak 
So 's 't all the country dreads me onct a 

week, 
But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head 
Thet sets to home an' thinks wut might 

be said, 
The sense thet grows an' werrits under- 
neath, 
Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, 
An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my 

gardin 
Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. 
Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his 

head !) 
'Mongst other stories of ole times he 

hed, 
Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his 

spreads 
Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige- 

heads, 
(Ef 't war n't Demossenes, I guess 't 

wuz Sisro,) 
Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this 

row, 
Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees 
Their diff runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould 

please ; 
"An'," sez the Parson, "to hit right, 

you must 
Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust ; 
For, take my word for 't, when all 's 

come an' past, 
The kebbige-heads '11 cair the day et 

last; 
Th* ain't ben a meetin' sence the worP 

begun 



But they made (raw or biled ones) ten 
to one." 

I Ve alius foun* 'em, I allow, sence 

then 
About ez good for talkin' to ez men ; 
They '11 take edvice, like other folks, to 

keep, 
(To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu 

cheap, ) 
They listen wal, don' kick up when you 

scold 'em, 
An' ef they've tongues, hev sense 

enough to hold 'em ; 
Though th' ain't no denger we shall 

lose the breed, 
I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed, 
An' when my sappiness gits spry in 

spring, 
So 's 't my tongue itches to run on full 

swing, 
I fin' 'em ready-planted in March- 

meetin', 
Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their 

greetin', 
An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum 

the fence, — 
Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f ex- 
pense. 
This year I made the follerin* observa- 
tions 
Extrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o* 

patience, 
An', no reporters bein' sent express 
To work their abstrac's up into a mess 
Ez like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut 

pictur' 
Thet chokes the life out like a boy- 
constrictor, 
I 've writ 'em out, an' so avide all 

jeal'sies 
'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some 
one's else's. 

(N. B. Reporters gin'lly git a hint 
To make dull orjunces seem 'live in 

print, 
An', ez I hev t' report myself, I vum, 
I '11 put th' applauses where they 'd 

ough? to come !) 

MY FELLER KEBBIGE-HEADS, who look 

so green, 
I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen 



320 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



The world of all its hearers but jest you, 

'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth 
talkin' to, 

An' you, my ven'able ol' frien's, thet 
show 

Upon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March 
snow, 

Ez ef mild Time had christened every 
sense 

For wisdom's church o' second inno- 
cence, 

Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing, 

But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o* 
spring, — [Sev'ril noses blowed.] 

We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to de- 
cide 

Which is the Lord's an* which is Sa- 
tan's side, 

Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen 

Is 'long o' which on 'em you choose for 
Cappen. f Cries o' " Thet 's so ! '*] 

Aprul 's come back ; the swellin' buds 

of oak 
Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish 

smoke ; 
The brooks are loose an', singing to be 

seen, 
(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft 

an' green ; 
The birds are here, for all the season 's 

late ; 
They take the sun's height an' don' 

never wait ; 
Soon 'z he officially declares it 's spring 
Their light hearts lift 'em on a north- 

'ard wing, 
An' th' ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, 
Can't by the music tell the time o' year ; 
But thet white dove Carliny scared 

away, 
Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day ; 
Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' 

build last year 
An' coo by every housedoor, is n't 

here, — 
No, nor wun't never be, for all our jaw, 
Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war ! 
O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they 

could see 
The begnet-pint there is to an idee ! 

[Sensation.] 

Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in 
steel ; 



They run your soul thru an' you never 
feel, 

But crawl about an' seem to think 
you 're livin', 

Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's 
forgivin', 

Till you come bunt ag'in a real live feet, 

An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to 
ect ! 

Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're cross- 
in' now, 

An' no man, fit to newigate a scow, 

'Ould stan' expectin' help from King- 
dom Come, 

While t' other side druv their cold iron 
home. 

My frien's, you never gethered from my 

mouth, 
No, nut one word ag'in the South ez 

South, 
Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, 

nor black, 
Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em 

back ; 
But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust 
To write up on his door, " No goods on 

trust " ; 

[Cries of " Thet 's the ticket ! "1 
Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, 
An' they'll be snug inside afore nex' 

fall. 
Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev 

Jamaker, 
Wuth minus some consid'able an acre ; 
Give wut they need, an' we shell git 

'fore long 
A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, 

strong ; 
Make 'em Amerikin, an' they '11 begin 
To love their country ez they loved 

their sin ; 
Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' 

a sore 
Ready to fester ez it done afore. 
No mortle man can boast of perfic' 

vision, 
But the one moleblin' thing is Indecis- 
ion, 
An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor 

state 
Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. 
Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle ; do 

you? 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



321 



*T was commonsense afore the war wuz 

thru; 
Thet loaded all our guns an' made 'em 

speak 
So 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost 

the creek ; 
" They 're drivin' o' their spiles down 

now," sez she, 
"To the hard grennit o' God's fust 

idee ; 
Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't 

fear 
The tallest airthquakes we can git up 

here." 
Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge, 
An' say 't will only set their teeth on 

edge, 
But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I 

ever see, 
Are 'bout ez mad 'z they wal know how 

to be; 
It 's better than the Rebs themselves 

expected 
'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down 

henpected ; 
Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make 

things fast, 
For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 

'11 last ; 
Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks 

say, 
How could we punish it a milder way 
Than sayin' to 'em, " Brethren, lookee 

here, 
We '11 jes' divide things with ye, sheer 

an' sheer, 
An sence both come o' pooty strong- 
backed daddies, 
You take the Darkies, ez we 've took 

the Paddies ; 
Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the 

hand, 
An' they 're the bones an' sinners o' 

the land." 
I ain't o' them thet fancy there 's a loss 

on 
Every inves'ment thet don't start from 

Bos'on ; 
But I know this : our money 's safest 

trusted 
In sunthin', come wut will, thet canH 

be busted, 
An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee, 
To make a man a Man an' let him be. 
[Gret applause. J 



Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad 

to 't, 
But I do' want to block their only road 

to 't 
By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git 
Mor 'n wut they lost, out of our little 

wit : 
I tell ye wut, I 'm 'fraid we '11 drif ' to 

leeward 
'Thout we can put more stiffenin' into 

Seward ; 
He seems to think Columby 'd better 

ect 
Like a scared widder with a boy stiff- 
necked 
Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come 

in to supper ; 
She mus' set up for him, elk weak ez 

Tupper, 
Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, 
Tell he '11 eccept her 'pologies in form : 
The neighbors tell her he 's a cross- 
grained cuss 
Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to 

wus ; 
" No," sez Ma Seward, " he 's ez good 

'z the best, 
All he wants now is sugar-plums an' 

rest " ; 
" He sarsed my Pa," sez one ; " He 

stoned my son," 
Another edds. " O, wal, 't wuz jest 

his fun." 
" He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell 

dead." 
" 'T wuz only tryin' a noogun he hed." 
"Wal, all we ask 's to hev it under- 
stood 
You '11 take his gun away from him for 

good ; 
We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his 

play, 
Seein' he alius km' o' shoots our way. 
You kill your fatted calves to no good 

eend, 
'Thout his fust sayin', * Mother, I hev 

sinned !"' 
I" Amen ! " frum Deac'n Greenleaf.] 

The Pres'dunt he thinks thet the slick- 
est plan 

'Ould be t' allow thet he 's our on'y 
man, 

An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war 

Jes' for his private glory an' eclor ; 



322 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



"Nobody ain't a Union man," sez he, 
44 'Thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, 

with me ; 
War n't Andrew Jackson's "nitials jes' 

like mine ? 
An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right 

divine 
To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please, 
An' treat your Congress like a nest o' 

fleas ? " 
Wal, I expec' the People would n' 

care, if 
The question now wuz techin' bank or 

tariff, 
But I conclude they 've 'bout made up 

their mind 
This ain't the fittest time to go it blind, 
Nor these ain't metters thet with 

pol'tics swings, 
But goes 'way down amongst the roots 

o' things ; 
Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' 

one day 
They wun't let four years' war be 

throwed away. 
" Let the South hev her rights?" They 

say, " Thet 's you ! 
But nut greb hold of other folks's tu." 
Who owns this country, is it they or 

Andy? 
Leastways it ough' to be the People 

and he ; 
Let him be senior pardner, ef he 's so, 
But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co ; 
[Laughter.] 

Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble num- 
bers 

Think thet the job wuz taken by Co- 
lumbus. 

Did he set tu an' make it wut it is ? 

Ef so, I guess the One- Man-power hez 
riz. 

Did he put thru the rebbles, clear the 
docket, 

An' pay th' expenses out of his own 
pocket ? 

Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I 
exes 

Is t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal 

texes. [Profound sensation.] 

Was 't he thet shou'dered all them 

million guns ? 
Did he lose all the fathers* brothers, 

sons? 



Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we 

run 
A kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one ? 
An' is the country goin' to knuckle 

down 
To hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o' 

Brown ? 
Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Rich- 

mon' fell ? 
Wuz the South needfle their full name 

to spell? 
An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' 

way 
Till th' underpinnin' 's settled so 's to 

stay? 
Who cares for the Resolves of '61, 
Thet tried to coax an airthquake with 

a bun? 
Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence 

then 
To larn folks they must hendle fects 

like men ? 
Ain't this the true p'int? Did the 

Rebs accep' 'em ' 
Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't 

kep' 'em ? 
War n't there two sides? an' don't it 

stend to reason 
Thet this week's 'Nited States ain't 

las' week's treason ? 
When all these sums is done, with 

nothin' missed, 
An' nut afore, this school '11 be dis- 
missed. 

I knowed ez wal ez though I 'd seen 't 
with eyes 

Thet when the war wuz over copper 'd 
rise, 

An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our 
kettle 

'T would need Leviathan's whole skin 
to settle : 

I thought 't would take about a genera- 
tion 

'Fore we could wal begin to be a na- 
tion, 

But I allow I never did imegine 

'T would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould 
drive a wedge in 

To keep the split from closin' ef it 
could, 

An' healin' over with new wholesome 
wood ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



323 



For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while 

they think 
Thet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's 

ink ; 
I mus' confess I thank him for dis- 

coverin' 
The curus way in which the States are 

sovereign ; 
They ain't nut quite enough so to rebel, 
But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise 

h [A groan from Deac'n G.] 

Why, then, for jes' the same superl'- 

tive reason, 
They 're 'most too much so to be tetched 

for treason ; 
They can't go out, but ef they somehow 

du, 
Their sovereignty don't noways go out 

tu; 
The State goes out, the sovereignty 

don't stir, 
But stays to keep the door ajar for her. 
He thinks secession never took 'em out, 
An' mebby he 's correc', but I mis- 
doubt ; 
Ef they war n't out, then why, 'n the 

name o' sin, 
Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em 

in? 
In law, pVaps nut ; but there 's a dif- 
ference, ruther, 
Betwixt your mother-'n-law an' real 

mother, [Derisive cheers. 1 

An' I, for one, shall wish they 'd all 

been som'eres^ 
Long 'z U. S. Texes are sech reg'lar 

comers. 
But, O my patience ! must we wriggle 

back 
Into th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track, 
When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev 

cut 
Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut ? 
War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe 

the slate 
Clean for the cyph'rin of some nobler 

fate. [Applause.] 

Ez for dependin* on their oaths an thet, 
'T wun't bind 'em mor 'n the ribbin 

roun' my het ; 
I heared a fable once from Othniel 

S tarns, 



That pints it slick ez weathercocks do 

barns: 
Onct on a time the wolves hed certing 

rights 
Inside the fold ; they used to sleep there 

nights. 
An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they 

took 
Their turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a 

book; 
But somehow, when the dogs hed gut 

asleep, 
Their love o' mutton beat their love o* 

sheep, 
Till gradilly the shepherds come to see 
Things war n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' 

to be; 
So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate 
Along 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to 

go on straight ; 
They did n' seem to set much by the 

deacon, 
Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to 

speak on ; 
Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out 

an' stay, 
An' hev their fill o' mutton every day ; 
Then dogs an' shepherds, after much 

hard dammin', 

[Groan from Deac'n G.J 
Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented 

lammin', 
An* sez, " Ye sha' n't go out, the mur- 
rain rot ye, 
To keep us wastin' half our time to 

watch ye ! " 
But then the question come, How live 

together 
'Thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew -nor 

wether? 
Now there wuz some dogs (noways 

wuth their keep) 
Thet sheered fheir cousins' tastes an* 

sheered the sheep ; 
They sez, " Be gin'rous, let 'em swear 

right in, 
An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear 

ag'in ; 
Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst 

they 're swearin' ; 
To ask for more 'ould be beyond all 

bearin'." 
" Be gin'rous for yourselves, where you 

're to pay, 



324 



THE BIGLOJV PAPERS. 



Thet 's the best prectice," sez a shep- 
herd gray ; 

" Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth 
a button, 

Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their 
taste for mutton ; 

Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er 
you puzzle : 

Tell they 're convarted, let 'em wear a 
muzzle." 

[Cries of "Bully for you 1 "J 

I 've noticed thet each half-baked 

scheme's abetters 
Are in the hebbit o' producin' letters 
Writ by all sorts o' never-heared-on 

fellers, 
'Bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in 

bellers ; 
I 've noticed, tu, it 's the quack med'- 

cines gits 
(An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffy- 

kits; 

[Two apothekeries goes out. J 
Now, sence I lef ' off creepin' on all 

fours, 
I hain't ast no man to endorse my 

course ; 
It 's full ez cheap to be your own en- 
dorser, 
An' ef I 've made a cup, I '11 fin' the 

saucer ; 
But I 've some letters here from t' other 

side, 
An' them 's the sort thet helps me to 

decide ; 
Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies 

hanker, 
An' I '11 tell you jest where it 's safe to 

anchor. [Faint hiss.] 

Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writes 
Thet for a spell he could 'n sleep o' 

nights, 
Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to 

pin to, 
Which wuz th' ole homestead, which 

the temp'ry leanto ; 
Et fust he j edged 't would right-side-up 

his pan 
To come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union 

man, 
"But now," he sez, "I ain't nut quite 

so fresh ; 
The winnin' horse isgoin' to be Secesh ; 



You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly 

walked the course, 
'Fore we contrived to doctor th' Union 

horse ; 
Now we 're the ones to walk aroun' the 

nex' track : 
Jest you take hold an' read the follerin' 

extrac', 
Out of a letter I received last week 
From an ole frien' thet never sprung a 

leak, 
A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey 

blue, 
Born copper-sheathed an' copper-fast- 
ened tu." 

"These four years past it hez been 

tough 
To say which side a feller went for; 
Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' 

rough, 
An' nothih' duin' wut 't wuz meant for ; 
Pickets a-firin' left an' right, 
Both sides a lettin' rip et sight, — 
Life warn't wuth hardly payin' rent for. 

" Columby gut her back up so, 
It war n't no use a-tryin' to stop her, — 
War's emptin's riled her very dough 
An' made it rise an' act improper ; 
'T wuz full ez much ez I could du 
To jes' lay low an' worry thru, 
'Thout hevin' to sell out my copper,, 

" Afore the war your mod'rit men 

Could set an' sun 'em on the fences, 

Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' then 

Jump off which way bes' paid expenses ; 

Sence, 't wus so resky ary way, 

/ didn't hardly darst to say 

I 'greed with Paley's Evidences. 

[Groan from Deac'n G] 

" Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fence 
War n't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't, 
Headin' your party with a sense 
O' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't, 
And tryin' to think thet, on the whole, 
You kin' o' quasi own your soul 
When Belmont 's gut a bill o' sale on ,u ? 
[Three cheers for Grant and Sherman.] 

" Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'cm* Id 

like 
Their pol'tics done ag'in by proxy 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



3'S 



Give their noo loves the bag an' strike 
A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy ; 
But the drag 's broke, now slavery 's 

gone, 
An' there 's gret resk they '11 blunder on, 
Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy. 

"We 've gut an awful row to hoe 
In this 'ere job o' reconstructin' ; 
Folks dunno skurce which way to go, 
Where th' ain't some bogholt to be 

ducked in ; 
But one thing 's clear ; there is a crack, 
Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black, 
Where the old makebate can be tucked 



" No white man sets in airth's broad 

aisle 
Thet I ain't willin' t' own ez brother, 
An' ef he 's heppened to strike ile, 
I dunno, fin'ly, but I 'd ruther ; 
An' Paddies, long'z they vote all right, 
Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white, 
I hold one on 'em good 'z another. 

[Applause.] 

" Wut is there lef I 'd like to know, 
Ef 't ain't the difference o' color, 
To keep up self-respec' an' show 
The human natur' of a fullah ? 
Wut good in bein' white, onless 
It 's fixed by law, nut lef to guess, 
That we are smarter an' they duller? 

" Ef we 're to hev our ekle rights, 
'T wun't du to 'low no competition ; 
Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whites 
Ain't safe onless we stop th' emission 
O' these noo notes, whose specie base 
Is human natur', 'thout no trace* 
O' shape, nor color, nor condition. 

[Continood applause.] 

" So fur I 'd writ an' could n' jedge 
Aboard wut boat I 'd best takepessige, 
My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no 

edge 
Upon 'em more than tu a sessige, 
But now it seems ez though I see 
Sunthin' resemblin' an idee, 
Sence Johnson's speech an' veto mes- 
sage. 



" I like the speech best, I confess, 
The logic, preudence, an' good taste 

on 't, 
An' it 's so mad, I ruther guess 
There 's some dependence to be placed 

on 't : [Laughter.] 

It 's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me, 
Out o' the allies o' J. D. 
A temp'ry party can be based on 't. 

" Jes' to hold on till Johnson 's thru 
An' dug his Presidential grave is, 
An' then I — who knows but we could 

slew 

The country roun' to put in ? 

Wun't some folks rare up when we 

pull 
Out o' their eyes our Union wool 
An' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is ! 

" O, did it seem 'z ef Providunce 
Could ever send a second Tyler ? 
To see the South all back to once, 
Reapin' the spiles o' the Freesiler, 
Is cute ez though an ingineer 
Should claim th' old iron for his sheer 
Coz 't was himself that bust the biler ! " 
[Gret laughter.] 

Thet tells the story ! Thet 's wut we 

shall git 
By tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' 

Pit; 
For the day never comes when it '11 

du 
To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe. 
I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air, 
A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair, 
Thet comes from nowhere an' from 

everywhere, 
An' seems to say, " Why died we? 

war n't it, then, 
To settle, once for all, thet men wur 

men? 
O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us 

barely tasted, 
The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz 

wasted ! 
O, you we lef, long-lingerin' et the 

door, 
Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the 

more, 
Thet Death, not we, had conquered, 

we should feel 



326 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Ef she upon our memory turned her 

heel, 
An' unregretful throwed us all away 
To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holi- 
day ! " 

My frien's, I 've talked nigh on to long 

enough. 
I hain't no call to bore ye cor ye 're 

tough ; 



My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice 
delights 

Our ears, but even kebbige-heads hez 
rights. 

It 's the las' time thet I shell e'er ad- 
dress ye, 

But you '11 soon fin' some new torment- 
or : bless ye 1 

[Tumult'ous applause and cries of " Go on ! " 
" Don't stop I "] 



GLOSSARY. 



A. 



Act'lly, actually. 
Air, are. 
Airth, earth. 
Airy, area. 
Aree, area. 
Arter, after* 
Ax, ask. 



B. 



Beller, bellow* 
Bellowses, lungs. 
Ben, been. 
Bile, &w7. 

Bimeby, by and by. 
Blurt out, to speak bluntly. 
Bust, burst. 

Buster, a roistering blade; used also 
as a general superlative. 

C 

Caird, carried. 

Cairn, carrying. 

Caleb, a turncoat. 

CaPlate, calculate. 

Cass, a person with two lives. 

Close, clothes. 

Cockerel, a young- cock. 

Cocktail, a kind of drink ; also, an 
ornament peculiar to soldiers. 

Convention, a place where people are 
imposed on ; a juggler's show. 

Coons, a cant term, for a now define t 
party; derived, perhaps, from the 
fact of their being commonly up a 
tree. 

Cornwallis, a sort of muster in mas- 
querade ; supposed to have had its 
origin soon after the Revolution, and 
to commemorate the surrender of 



Lord Cornwallis. It took the place 
of the old Guy Fawkes procession. 

Crooked stick, a perverse, froward 
person. 

Cunnle, a colonel. 

Cus, a curse; also, a pitiful fellow. 



Darsn't, used indiscriminately, either 
in singular or plural number, for 
dare not, dares not, and dared not. 

Deacon off, to give the cue to ; derived 
from a custom, once universal, but 
now extinct, in our New England 
Congregational churches. An im- 
portant part of the office of deacon 
was to read aloud the hymns given 
out by the minister, one line at a 
time, the congregation singing each 
line as soon as read. 

Demmercrat, leadin', one in favor of 
extendi7ig slavery; a free-trade 
lecturer maintained in the custom- 
house. 

Desput, desperate. 

Doos, does. 

Doughface, a contented lick-spittle ; a 
common variety of Northern politi- 
cian. 

Dror, draw. 

Du, do. 

Dunno, dno, do not or does not know. 

Dut, dirt. 

E. 

Eend, end. 
Ef, if 

Emptins, yeast. 
Env'y, envoy. 

Everlasting, an intensive, without refer- 
ence to duration. 
Ev'y, every. 
Ez, as. 



328 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Fence, on the ; said of one who halts 
between two opinions ; a trimmer. 

Fer, for. 

Ferfle, ferful, fearful; also an inten- 
sive. 

Fin', find. 

Fish-skin, used in New England to 
clarify coffee. 

Fix, a difficulty, a nonplus. 

F oiler, folly, to follow. 

Forrerd, forward* 

Frum, from. 

Fur, far. 

Furder, farther. 

Furrer, furrow. Metaphorically, to 
draw a straight furrow is to live 
uprightly or decorously. 

Fust, first, 

G. 

Gin, gave* 

Git, get. 

Gret, great. 

Grit, spirit, energy, pluck. 

Grout, to sulk. 

Grouty, crabbed, surly. 

Gum, to iinpose on. 

Gump, a foolish fellow, a dullard. 

Gut, got, 

H. 

Hed, had. 
Heern, heard. 
Helium, helm. 
Hendy, handy. 
Het, heated. 
Hev, have. 
Hez, has. 
Holl, whole. 
Holt, hold. 
Huf, hoof 
Hull, whole. 
Hum, home. 

Humbug, General Taylor's anti- 
slavery. 
Hut, hurt, 

I. 

Idno, / do not know. 
In' my, enemy. 



Insines, ensigns; used to designate 
both the officer who carries the stand- 
ard, and the standard itself. 

Inter, intu, into. 



Jedge, judge. 
Jest, jtist. 
Jine, join. 
Jint, joint. 

Junk, a fragment of a?iy solid sub- 
stance. 

K. 
Keer, care. 
Kep\ kept, 

Killock, a small anchor. 
Kin', kin' o', kinder, kind, kind of. 



Lawth, loath. 

Less, let's, let us. 

Let daylight into, to shoot. 

Let on, to hint, to confess, to own. 

Lick, to beat, to overcome. 

Lights, the bowels. 

Lily-pads, leaves of the water-lily. 

Long-sweetening, molasses. 



M. 

Mash, -marsh. 

Mean, stingy, ill-natured. 

Min', vund. 

N. 

Nimepunce, ninepence, twelve and a 

half cents. 
Nowers, nowhere. 



Offen, often, 

Ole, old. 

Oilers, olluz, always. 

On, of; used before it or them, or af 

the end of a sentence, as on't t on' em, 

nut ez ever I heerd on. 
On'y, only. 
Ossifer, officer, (seldom heard). 



GLOSSARY. 



329 



Peaked, pointed. 

Peek, to peep. 

Pickerel, the pike, a fish. 

Pint, point. 

Pocket full of rocks, plenty of money. 

Pooty, pretty. 

Pop'ler, conceited, popular '. 

Pus, purse. 

Put out, troubled, vexed. 



Quarter, a quarter-dollar. 
Queen's-arm, a musket. 



Resh, rush. 

Revelee, the reveille. 

Rile, to trouble. 

Riled, angry ; disturbed, as the sedi- 
ment in any liquid. 

Riz, risen. 

Row, a long row to hoe, a difficult 
task. 

Rugged, robust* 

S. 

Sarse, abuse, impertinence. 

Sartin, certain. 

Saxon, sacristan, sexton. 

Scaliest, %vorst. 

Scringe, cringe. 

Scrouge, to crowd. 

Sech, such. 

Set by, valued. 

Shakes, great, of considerable conse- 
quence. 

Shappoes, chapeaux, cocked-hats. 

Sheer, share. 

Shet, shut. 

Shut, shirt. 

Skeered, scared. 

Skeeter, mosquito. 

Skooting, running, or moving swiftly. 

Slarterin', slaughtering. 

Slim, contemptible. 

Snaked, crawled like a snake ; but to 
snake any one out is to track him to 
his hiding-place ; to snake a thing 
out is to snatch it out. 



Soffies, sofas* 

Sogerin', soldiering; a barbarous 
amusement common among men in 
the savage state. 

Som'ers, somewhere. 

So'st, so as that. 

Sot, set, obstinate, resolute. 

Spiles, spoils ; objects of political am- 
bition. 

Spry, active. 

Staddles, stout stakes driven into the 
salt marshes, on which the hay-ricks 
are set, and thus raised out of the 
reach of high tides. 

Streaked, tincomf or table, discomfited. 

Suckle, circle- 

Sutthin', something. 

Suttin, certain. 



Take on, to sorrow. 

Talents, talons. 

Taters, potatoes. 

Tell, till. 

Tetch, touch. 

Tetch tu, to be able ; used always after 
a negative in this sense. 

Tollable, tolerable. 

Toot, used derisively for playing on 
any wind instrument. 

Thru, through. 

Thundering, a euphemism common in 
New England, for the profane Eng- 
lish expression devilish. Perhaps 
derived from the belief, common for- 
merly, that thunder was caused by 
the Prince of the Air, for some of 
whose accomplishments consult Cot- 
ton Mather. 

Tu, to, too; commonly has this sound 
when used emphatically, or at the 
end of a sentence. At other times it 
has the sound of t in tough, as, 
Ware ye grin? tu ? Goin' ta Bos- 
ton. 



U. 

Ugly, ill-tempered, intractable. 
Uncle Sam, United States ; the largest 
boaster of liberty and owner of slaves. 



330 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Unrizzest, applied to dough or bread ; 
heavy \ most unrisen t or most inca- 
pable of rising. 



V. 

V-spot, a five-dollar MIL 
Vally, value. 

W. 

Wake snakes, to get into trouble. 

Wal, well ; spoken with great delibera- 
tion, and sometimes with the a very 
much flattened, sometimes (but more 
seldom) very much broadened. 

Wannut, walnut, {hickory.) 

Ware, where. 

Ware, were. 

Whopper, an uncommonly large lie ; 
as, that General Taylor is in favor of 
the Wilmot Proviso, 



Wig, Whig; a party now dissolved. 

Wunt, will not. 

Wus, worse. 

Wut, what. 

Wuth, worth ; as, A ntislavery per- 

fessions fore 'lection aint wuth a 

Bungtown copper. 
Wuz, was, sometimes were. 



Yaller, yellow. 
Yeller, yellow. 
Yellers, a disease of peach-trees. 



Z. 

Zach, Ole, a second Washington, an 
antislavery slaveholder, a humane 
buyer and seller of men andwomen t 
a Christian hero generally. 



INDEX. 



A. wants his axe ground, 282. 

A. B., information wanted concerning, 
207. 

Abraham (Lincoln), his constitutional 
scruples, 282. 

Abuse, an, its usefulness, 295. 

Adam, eldest son of, respected, 185 — 
his fall, 301 — how if he had bitten a 
sweet apple ? 304. 

Adam, Grandfather, forged will of, 271. 

./Eneas goes to hell, 214. 

^Eolus, a seller of money, as is sup- 
posed by some, 215. 

iEschylus, a saying of, 199, note. 

Alligator, a decent one conjectured to 
be, in some sort, humane, 220. 

Allsmash, the eternal, 286. 

Alphonso the Sixth of Portugal, tyran- 
nical act o£ 221. 

Ambrose, Saint, excellent (but ration- 
alistic) sentiment of, 193. 

" American Citizen," new compost so 
called, 215. 

American Eagle, a source of inspira- 
tion, 196 — hitherto wrongly classed, 
199 — long bill of, ib. 

Americans bebrothered, 265. 

Amos cited, 193. 

Anakim, that they formerly existed, 
shown, 221. 

Angels providentially speak French, 
189 — conjectured to be skilled in all 
tongues, ib. 

Anglo- Saxondom, its idea, what, 188. 

Anglo-Saxon mask, 188. 

Anglo-Saxon race, 187. 

Anglo- Saxon verse, by whom carried to 
perfection, 186. 

Antiquaries, Royal Society of North- 
ern, 289. 

Antonius, a speech ofj 194 — by whom 
best reported, ib. 



Antony of Padua, Saint, happy in his 
hearers, 275. 

Apocalypse, beast in, magnetic to theo- 
logians, 209. 

Apollo, confessed mortal by his own 
oracle, 209. 

Apollyon, his tragedies popular, 206. 

Appian, an Alexandrian, not equal to 
Shakespeare as an orator, 194. 

Applause, popular, the summum bo- 
num^ 291. 

Ararat, ignorance of foreign tongues 
is an, 200. 

Arcadian background, 216. 

Ar c'houskezik, an evil spirit, 275. 

Ardennes, Wild Boar of, an ancestor 
of Rev. Mr. Wilbur, 254. 

Aristocracy, British, their natural sym- 
pathies, 280. 

Aristophanes, 192. 

Arms, profession of, once esteemed, 
especially that of gentlemen, 185. 

Arnold, 195. 

Ashland, 216. 

Astor, Jacob, a rich man, an. 

Astrasa, nineteenth century forsaken 

b y» 2I 5- 
Athenians, ancient, an institution of, 

195- 

Atherton, Senator, envies the loon, 202. 

" Atlantic," editors of. See Neptune. 

Atropos, a lady skilful with the scis- 
sors, 304. 

Austin, Saint, profane wish of, 195, 
note — prayer of, 254. 

Austrian eagle split, 295. 

Aye-Aye, the, an African animal, 
America supposed to be settled by, 
190. 

B. 

B., a Congressman, vide A . 
Babel, probably the first Congress, 200 
— a gabble-mill, ib. 



332 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Baby, a low-priced one, 214. 

Bacon, his rebellion, 276. 

Bacon, Lord, quoted, 276. 

Bagowind, Hon. Mr., whether to be 
damned, 203. 

Balcom, Elder Joash Q., 2d, founds a 
Baptist society in Jaalara, A. D. 1830, 
312. 

Baldwin apples, 222. 

Baratarias, real or imaginary, which 
most pleasant, 215. 

Barnum, a great natural curiosity rec- 
ommended to, 198. 

Barrels, an inference from seeing, 222. 

Bartlett, Mr., mistaken, 262. 

Baton Rouge, 216 — strange peculiari- 
ties of laborers at, ib. 

Baxter, R., a saying of, 193. 

Bay, Mattysqumscot, 220. 

Bay State, singular effect produced on 
military officers by leaving it, 189. 

Beast, in Apocalypse, a loadstone for 
whom, 209 — tenth horn of, applied 
to recent events, 303. 

Beaufort, 287. 

Beauregard (real name Toutant), 266, 
282. 

Beaver, brook, 316. 

Beelzebub, his rigadoon, 202. 

Behmen, his letters not letters, 207. 

Behn, Mr. Aphra, quoted, 276. 

Bellers, a saloon-keeper, 218 — inhu- 
manly refuses credit to a presidential 
candidate, ib. 

Belmont. See Woods. 

Bentley, his heroic method with Mil- 
ton, 290. 

Bible, not composed for use of colored 
persons, 278. 

Biglow, Ezekiel, his letter to Hon. J. 
T. Buckingham, 183 — never heard 
of any one named Mundishes, ib. — 
nearly fourscore years old, ib. — his 
aunt Keziah, a notable saying of, ib. 

Biglow, Hosea, Esquire, excited by 
composition, 183 — a poem by, ib., 204 
— his opinion of war, 184 — wanted at 
home by Nancy, 184 — recommends 
a forcible enlistment of warlike edi- 
tors, ib. — would not wonder, if gene- 
rally agreed with, ib. — versifies letter 
of Mr. Sawin, 185 — a letter from, 
186, 201 — his opinion of Mr. Sawin, 
186 — does not deny fun at Cornwal- 



lis, ib. note — his idea of militia glory, 
187, note — a pun of, 188, note — is 
uncertain in regard to people of Bos- 
ton, ib. — had never heard of Mr. 
John P. Robinson, 190 — aliguid 
sujflaminandus, ib. — his poems at- 
tributed to a Mr. Lowell, 192 — is 
unskilled in Latin, ib. — his poetry 
maligned by some, ib. — his disinter- 
estedness, ib. — his deep share in 
common-weal, 193 — his claim to the 
presidency, ib. — his mowing, ib. — 
resents being called Whig, ib. — op- 
posed to tariff, ib. — obstinate, ib. — 
infected with peculiar notions, ib. — 
reports a speech, 194 — emulates his- 
torians of antiquity, ib. — his charac- 
ter sketched from a hostile point of 
view, 199 — a request of his complied 
with, 203 — appointed at a public 
meeting in Jaalam, 207 — confesses 
ignorance, in one minute particular, 
of propriety, ib. — his opinion of 
cocked hats, ib. — letter to, ib. — 
called " Dear Sir," by a general, ib. 

— probably receives same compli- 
ment from two hundred and nine, ib. 

- picks his apples, 222 — his crop of 
Baldwins conjecturally large, ib. — 
his labors in writing autographs, 253 

— visits the Judge and has a pleasant 
time, 262 — born in Middlesex Coun- 
ty, 267 — his favorite walks, ib. — his 
gifted pen, 285 — born and bred in 
the country, 297 — feels his sap start 
in spring, 298 — is at times unsocial, 

299 — the school-house where he 
learned his a-b-c, ib. — falls asleep, 

300 — his ancestor a Cromwellian 
colonel, ib. — finds it harder to make 
up his mind as he grows older, 301 — 
wishes he could write a song or two, 
305 — liable to moods, 315 — loves 
nature and is loved in return, ib. — 
describes some favorite haunts of his, 
315, 316 — his slain kindred, 316 — < 
his speech in March meeting, 317 — 
does not reckon on being sent to 
Congress, 318 — has no eloquence, 
ib. — his own reporter, 319 — never 
abused the South, 320 — advise Un- 
cle Sam, ib. — is not Boston-m?d, 
321 — bids farewell, 326. 

Billings, Dea. Cephas, 186, 



INDEX. 



333 



Billy, Extra, detnagogus, 309. 
Birch, virtue of, in instilling certain of 

the dead languages, 214. 
Bird of our country sings hosanna, 187. 
Bjarna Grimolfsson invents smoking, 

290. 
Blind, to go it, 213. 

Blitz pulls ribbons from his mouth, 187. 
Bluenose potatoes, smell of, eagerly 

desired, 187. 
Bobolink, the, 298. 
Bobtail obtains a cardinal's hat, 190. 
Boggs, a Norman name, 279. 
Bogus Four-Corners Weekly Meridian, 

291. 
Bolies, Mr. Secondary, author of prize 

peace essay, 187 — presents sword to 

Lieutenant Colonel, ib. — a fluent 

orator, ib. — found to be in error, 

187. 
Bonaparte, N., a usurper, 209. 
Bonds, Confederate, their specie basis 

cutlery, 259 — when payable, (atten- 
tion, British stockholders !) 286. 
Boot-trees, productive, where, 214. 
Boston, people of, supposed educated, 

188, note — has a good opinion of 

itself, 267, 268. 
Bowers, Mr. Arphaxad, an ingenious 

photographic artist, 290. 
Brahmins, navel-contemplating, 206. 
Brains, poor substitute for, 268. 
Bread-trees, 214. 
Bream, their only business, 263. 
Brigadier-Generals in militia, devotion 

of, 194. 
Brigadiers, nursing ones, tendency in 

to literary composition, 256. 
Brigitta, viridis, 308. 
Britannia, her trident, 273. 
Brotherhood, subsides after election, 

294. m 

Brown, Mr., engages in an unequal 

contest, 203. 
Browne, Sir T., a pious and wise senti- 
ment of, cited and commended, 186. 
Brutus Four-Corners, 254. 
Buchanan, a wise and honest man, 280. 
Buckingham, Hon. J. T., editor of the 

Boston Courier, letters to, 183, 185, 

iQ2, 201 — not afraid, 186. 
Buffalo, a plan hatched there, 219 — 

plaster, a prophecy in regard to, ib. 
Buffaloes, herd of, probable influence 

of tracts upon, 305. 



Bull, John, prophetic allusion to by 
Horace, 264 — his "Run," 267 — 
his mortgage, 271 — unfortunate dip 
of, 286 — wool pulled over his eyes, 
287. 

Buncombe, in the other World sup- 
posed, 195 — mutual privilege in, 
282. 

Bung, the eternal, thought to be loose, 
184. 

Bungtown Fencibles, dinner of, 190. 

Burke, Mr., his age of chivalry sur- 
passed, 279. 

Burleigh, Lord, quoted for something 
said in Latin long before, 276. 

Burns, Robert, a Scottish poet, 262. 

Bushy Brook, 277. 

Butler, Bishop, 284. 

Butter in Irish bogs, 214. 



C. 

C, General, commended for parts, 191 

— for ubiquity, ib. — for consistency, 
ib. — for fidelity, ib. — is in favor of 
war, ib. — his curious valuation of 
principle, ib. 

Cabbage-heads, the, always in majority, 

3i9- 
Cabinet, English, makes a blunder, 

265. 
Caesar, tribute to, 205 — his veni, vidi, 

vici, censured for undue prolixity, 

210. 
Cainites, sect of, supposed still extant, 

185. 
Caleb, a monopoly of his denied, 187 

— curious notions of, as to meaning 
of "shelter," 188 — his definition of 
Anglo-Saxon, #.— charges Mexi- 
cans (not with bayonets but) with im- 
proprieties, ib. 

Calhoun, Hon. J. C, his cow-bell cur- 
few, light of the nineteenth century 
to be extinguished at sound of, 200 — 
cannot let go apron-string of the Past, 
201— his unsuccessful tilt at Spirit 
of the Age, ib. — the Sir Kay of mod- 
ern chivalry, ib. — his anchor made 
of a crooked pin, ib. — mentioned, 
201 - 203. 

Calvboosus, career, 310. 

Cambridge Platform, 'use discovered 
for, 190. 



334 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Canaan in quarterly instalments, 291. 

Canary Islands, 214. 

Candidate, presidential, letter from, 207 

— smells a rat, ib. — against a bank, 
208 — takes a revolving position, ib. 

— opinion of pledges, ib. — is a peri- 
wig, ib. — fronts south by north, ib. 

— qualifications of, lessening, 210 — 
wooden leg (and head) useful to, 
213. 

Cape Cod clergymen, what, 189 — Sab- 
bath-breakers, perhaps, reproved by, 
ib. 

Captains, choice of, important, 320. 

Carolina, foolish act of, 320. 

Caroline, case of, 264. 

Carpini, Father John de Piano, among 
the Tartars, 221. 

Cartier, Jacques, commendable zeal of, 
221. 

Cass, General, 202 — clearness of his 
merit, ib. — limited popularity at 
" Bellers's," 218. 

Castles, Spanish, comfortable accom- 
modations in, 215. 

Cato, letters of, so called, suspended 
naso adunco, 207. 

C. D., friends of, can hear of him, 207. 

Century, nineteenth, 280. 

Chalk egg, we are proud of incubation 
of, 207. 

Chamberlayne, Doctor, consolatory 
citation from, 276. 

Chance, an apothegm concerning, 256 

— is impatient, 302. 

Chaplain, a one-horse, stern-wheeled 
variety of, 258. 

Chappelow on Job, a copy of, lost, 
204. 

Charles L, accident to his neck, 302. 

Charles II., his restoration, how brought 
about, 302. 

Cherubusco, news of, its effects on Eng- 
lish royalty, 199. 

Chesterfield no letter-writer, 207. 

Chief Magistrate, dancing esteemed 
sinful by, 189. 

Children naturally speak Hebrew, 186. 

China-tree, 214. 

Chinese, whether they invented gun- 
powder before the Christian era not 
considered, 190. 

Choate hired, 218. 

Christ shufHed into Apocrypha, 190 — 
conjectured to disapprove of slaugh- 



: 



ter and pillage, igi— condemns a 
certain piece of barbarism, 203. 

Christianity, profession of, plebeiaa, 
whether, 185. 

Christian soldiers, perhaps inconsist- 
ent, whether, 194. 

Cicero, 319, — an opinion of, dispute' 
209. 

Cilley, Ensign, author of nefarious sen- 
timent, 190. 

Cimex lectularius, 188. 

Cincinnati, old, law and order party of, 
2 95- 

Cincinnatus, a stock character in mod- 
ern comedy, 216. 

Civilization, progress of, an alias, 204 

— rides upon a powder-cart, 208. 
Clergymen, their ill husbandry, 203 — 

their place in processions, 216 — some, 

cruelly banished for the soundness of 

their lungs, 221. 
Clotho, a Grecian lady, 304. 
Cocked-hat, advantages of being 

knocked into, 207. 
College of Cardinals, a strange one, 

190. 
Colman, Dr. Benjamin, anecdote of, 

194. 

Colored folks, curious national diver- 
sion of kicking, 188. 

Colquitt, a remark of, 202 — acquainted 
with some principles of aerostation, 
ib. 

Columbia, District of, its peculiar cli- 
matic effects, 196 — not certain that 
Martin is for abolishing it, 219. 

Columbiads, the true fifteen-inch ones, 
294. 

Columbus, a Paul Pry of genius, 206 

— will perhaps be remembered, 289 

— thought by some to have discov- 
ered America, 322. 

Columby, 217. 

Complete Letter-Writer, fatal gift of, 

209. 
Compostella, Saint James of, seen, 189. 
Compromise system, the, illustrated, 

2 93- . . 

Conciliation, its meaning, 305. 

Congress, singular consequence of get- 
ting into, 196 — a stumbling-block, 
281. 

Congressional debates found instruc- 
tive, 200. 

Constituents, useful for what, 196. 



INDEX. 



33S 



Constitution trampled on, 201— to 
stand upon, what, 208. 

Convention, what, 196. 

Convention, Springfield, 196. 

Coon, old, pleasure in skinning, 202. 

Co-operation defined, 280. 

Coppers, caste in picking up of, 212. 

Copres, a monk, his excellent method 
of arguing, 200. 

Corduroy-road, a novel one, 256. 

Corner-stone, patent safety, 281. 

Cornwallis, a, 186 — acknowledged en- 
tertaining, ib. note. 

Cotton loan, its imaginary nature, 258. 

Cotton Mather, summoned as witness, 
189. . . - 

Country, our, its boundaries more ex- 
actly defined, 192 — right or wrong, 
nonsense about exposed, ib. — law- 
yers, sent providentially, ib. — Earth's 
biggest, gets a soul, 307. 

Courier, The Boston, an unsafe print, 

*99- 

Court, General, farmers sometimes at- 
tain seats in, 216. 

Court, Supreme, 282. 

Courts of law, English, their ortho- 
doxy, 291. 

Cousins, British, our ci-devant, 265. 

Cowper, W., his letters commended, 
207. 

Credit defined, 287. 

Creditors all on Lincoln's side, 281. 

Creed, a safe kind of, 213. 

Crockett, a good rule of, 259. 

Cruden, Alexander, his Concordance, 

254- 

Crusade, first American, 189. 

Cuneiform script recommended, 210. 

Curiosity distinguishes man from 
brutes, 206. 

Currency, Ethiopian, inconveniences 
of, 259. 

Cynthia, her hide as a means of con- 
version, 261. 

D. 

Dsedalus first taught men to sit on 
fences, 277. 

Daniel in the lion's den, 257. 

Darkies dread freedom, 281. 

Davis, Captain Isaac, finds out some- 
thing to his advantage, 267. 



Davis, Jefferson, (a new species of 
martyr,) has the latest ideas on all 
subjects, 259 — superior in financier- 
ing to patriarch Jacob, ib. — is some, 
281 — carries Constitution in his hat, 
ib. — knows how to deal with his 
Congress, ib. — astonished at his own 
piety, 286 — packed up for Nashville, 
287 — tempted to believe his own 
lies, 287 — his snake egg, 293 — the 
blood on his hands, 316. 

Davis, Mr., of Mississippi, a remark of 
his, 202. 

Day and Martin, proverbially "on 
hand," 183. 

Death, rings down curtain, 206. 

De Bow, (a famous political econo- 
mist,) 279. 

Delphi, oracle of, surpassed, 199, note 
— alluded to, 209. 

Democracy, false notion o£ 282 — its 
privileges, 306. 

Demosthenes, 319. 

Destiny, her account, 198. 

Devil, the, unskilled in certain Indian 
tongues, 189 — letters to and from, 
207. 

Dey of Tripoli, 200. 

Didymus, a somewhat voluminous 
grammarian, 209. 

Dighton rock character might be use- 
fully employed in some emergencies, 
209. 

Dimitry Bruisgins, fresh supply of, 206. 

Diogenes, his zeal for propagating cer- 
tain variety of olive, 214. 

Dioscuri, imps of the pit, 189. 

District-Attorney, contemptible con- 
duct of one, 200. 

Ditchwater on brain, a too common 
ailing, 200. 

Dixie, the land of, 281. 

Doctor, the, a proverbial saying of, 
189. 

Doe, Hon. Preserved, speech of, 291- 
296. 

Doughface, yeast-proof, 205. 

Downing Street, 264. 

Drayton, a martyr, 200 — north star, 
culpable for aiding, whether, 205. 

Dreams, something about, 300. 

Dwight, President, a hymn unjustly at- 
tributed to, 303. 

D. Y., letter of, 207. 






336 



THE BIGLOIV PAPERS. 



Eagle, national, the late, his estate ad- 
ministered upon, 260. 

Earth, Dame, a peep at her housekeep- 
ing, 201. 

Eating words, habit of, convenient in 
time of famine, 198. 

Eavesdroppers, 206. 

Echetkeus, 189. 

Editor, his position, 203 — command- 
ing pulpit of, 204 — large congrega- 
tion of, ib. — name derived from 
what, ib. — fondness for mutton, ib. 

— a pious one, his creed, ib. — a 
showman, 205 — in danger of sudden 
arrest, without bail, 206. 

Editors, certain ones who crow like 
cockerels, 184. 

Edwards, Jonathan, 313. 

Eggs, bad, the worst sort of, 295, 296. 

Egyptian darkness, phial of, use for, 
209. 

Eldorado, Mr. Sawin sets sail for, 214. 

Elizabeth, Queen, mistake of her am- 
bassador, 195. 

Emerson, 262. 

Emilius, Paulus, 266. 

Empedocles, 206. 

Employment, regular, a good thing, 
212. 

Enfield's Speaker, abuse of, 295. 

England, late Mother- Country, her want 
of tact, 263 — merits as a lecturer, ib. 

— her real greatness not to be for- 
gotten, 265 — not contented (unwise- 
ly) with her own stock of fools, 268 

— natural maker of international 
law, ib. — her theory thereof, ib. — 
makes a particularly disagreeable 
kind of sarse, 269 — somewhat given 
to bullying, ib. — has respectable re- 
lations, ib. — ought to be Columbia's 
friend, 270 — anxious to buy an ele- 
phant, 281. 

Epaulets, perhaps no badge of saint- 
ship, 191. 

Epimenides, the Cretan Rip Van Win- 
kle, 275. 

Episcopius, his marvellous oratory, 221. 

Eric, king of Sweden, his cap, 215. 

Ericsson, his caloric engine, 261. 

Eriksson, Thorwald, slain by natives, 
291. 



Essence-pedlers, 283. 

Ethiopian, the, his first need, 284. 

Evangelists, iron ones, 190. 

Eyelids, a divine shield against au- 
thors, 200. 

Ezekiel, text taken from, 203. 

Ezekiel would make a poor figure at a 
caucus, 296. 

F. 

Faber, Johannes, 314. 

Factory-girls, expected rebellion of, 202. 

Facts, their unamiability, 288 — com- 
pared to an old-fashioned stage- 
coach, 292. 

Falstajjfii, legio, 390. 

Family-trees, fruit of jejune, 214 — a 
primitive forest of, 293. 

Faneuil Hall, a place where persons 
tap themselves for a species of hydro- 
cephalus, 200 — a bill of fare menda- 
ciously advertised in, 214. 

Father of country, his shoes, 216. 

Female Papists, cut off in midst of idol- 
atry, 215. 

Fenianorum, rixce, 308. 

Fergusson, his "Mutual Complaint," 
&c, 262. 

F. F., singular power of their looks, 
281. 

Fire, we all like to play with it, 201. 

Fish, emblematic, but disregarded, 
where, 200 

Fitz, Miss Parthenia Almira, a shere- 
siarch, 312. 

Flam, President, untrustworthy, 196. 

Flirt, Mrs., 276. 

Flirtilla, elegy on death of, 313. 

Floyd, a taking character, 286. 

Floydus, furcifer, 309. 

Fly-leaves, providential increase of, 
200. 

Fool, a cursed, his inalienable rights, 
306. 

Foote, Mr., his taste for field-sports, 
201. 

Fourier, a squinting toward, 199. 

Fourth of July ought to know its place, 
294. 

Fourth of Julys, boiling, 195. 

France, a strange dance begun in, 202 
— about to put her foot in it, 281. 

Friar, John, 265. 



INDEX. 



337 



Fuller, Dr. Thomas, a wise saying of, 

191. 
Funnel, Old, hurraing in, 187. 



Gabriel, his last trump, its pressing na- 
ture, 292. 

Gardiner, Lieutenant Lion, 266. 

Gawain, Sir, his amusements, 201. 

Gay, S. H., Esquire, editor of National 
Antislavery Standard, letter to, 206. 

Geese, how infallibly to make swans 
of, 268. 

Gentleman, high-toned Southern, scien- 
tifically classed, 277. 

Getting up early, 184, 188. 

Ghosts, some, presumed fidgety, (but 
see Stilling's Pneumatology,) 207. 

Giants formerly stupid, 201. 

Gideon, his sword needed, 272. 

Gift of tongues, distressing case of, 200. 

Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, 290. 

Globe Theatre, cheap season-ticket to, 
206. 

Glory, a perquisite of officers, 212 — 
her account with B. Sawin, Esq., 214. 

Goatsnose, the celebrated, interview 
with, 209. 

God, the only honest dealer, 274. 

Goings, Mehetable, unfounded claim 
of, disproved, 263. 

Gomara has a vision, 189 — his rela- 
tionship to the Scarlet Woman, ib. 

Governor, our excellent, 254. 

Grandfather, Mr. Biglow's, safe advice 
of, 267. 

Grandfathers, the, knew some 'thing ; 
272. 

Grand jurors, Southern, their way of 
finding a true bill, 258. 

Grantus, Dux, 309. 

Gravestones, the evidence of Dissent- 
ing ones held doubtful, 291. 

Gray's letters are letters, 207. 

Great horn spoon, sworn by, 201. 

Greeks, ancient, whether they ques- 
tioned candidates, 209. 

Green Man, sign of, 193. 

H. 

Habeas corpus, new mode of suspend- 
ing it, 286. 



Hail Columbia, raised, 257. 

Ham, sandwich, an orthodox (but pe- 
culiar) one, 203 — his seed, 278 — 
their privilege in the Bible, ib. — im- 
moral justification of, ib. 

Hamlets, machine for making, 210. 

Hammon, 199, note, 209. 

Hampton Roads, disaster in, 284. 

Hannegan, Mr., something said by, 
202. 

Harrison, General, how preserved, 208. 

Hat, a leaky one, 258. 

Hat-trees, in full bearing, 214. 

Hawkins, his whetstone, 261. 

Hawkins, Sir John, stout, something 
he saw, 214. 

Hawthorne, 262. 

Hay-rick, electrical experiments with, 
306. 

Headlong, General, 266. 

Hell, the opinion of some concerning, 
300 — breaks loose, 305. 

Henry the Fourth of England, a Par- 
liament of, how named, 194, 195. 

Hens, self-respect attributed to, 256. 

Herb, the Circean, 291. 

Herbert, George, next to David, 275. 

Hercules, his second labor probably 
what, 221. 

Hermon, fourth-proof dew of, 278. 

Herodotus, story from, 186. 

Hesperides, an inference from, 214. 

Hessians, native American soldiers, 
282. 

Hickory, Old, his method, 305. 

Higgses, their natural aristocracy of 
feeling, 279. 

Hitchcock, the Rev. Jeduthun, col- 
league of Mr. Wilbur, 254 — letter 
from, containing notices of Mr. Wil- 
bur, 302 — ditto, enclosing macaronic 
verses, 307 — teacher of high-school, 

314- 

Hitchcock, Doctor, 290. 

Hogs, their dreams, 256. 

Holden, Mr. Shearjashub, Preceptor 
of Jaalam Academy, 209 — his knowl- 
edge of Greek limited, ib. — a heresy 
of his, ib. — leaves a fund to propa- 
gate it, 209. 

Holiday, blind man's, 326. 

Hollis, Ezra, goes to a Cornwallis, 186. 

Hollow, why men providentially so con- 
structed, 195. 



338 



I THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Holmes, Dr., author of "Annals of 

America," 254. 
Homer, a phrase of, cited, 204. 
Homer, eldest son of Mr. Wilbur, 313. 
Homers, democratic ones, plums left 

for, 197. 
Hotels, big ones, humbugs, 272. 
House, a strange one described, 256. 
Howell, James, Esq., story told by, 195 

— letters of, commended, 207. 
Huldah, her bonnet, 301. 

Human rights out of order on the floor 

of Congress, 201. 
Humbug, ascription of praise to, 205 

— generally believed in, ib. 
Husbandry, instance of bad, 191. 



I. 



Icarius, Penelope's father, 192. 

Icelander, a certain uncertain, 290. 

Idea, the Southern, its natural foes, 287 
— the true American, 321. 

Ideas, friction ones unsafe, 295. 

Idyl, denned, 262. 

Indecision, mole-blind, 320. 

Infants, prattlings of, curious observa- 
tion concerning, 186. 

Information wanted (universally, but 
especially at page) 207. 

Ishmael, young, 272. 



J. 

Jaalam, unjustly neglected by great 
events, 291. 

Jaalam Centre, Anglo-Saxons unjustly 
suspected by the young ladies there, 
188 — " Independent Blunderbuss, " 
strange conduct of editor of, 203 — 
public meeting at, 207 — meeting- 
house ornamented with imaginary 
clock, 215. 

Jaalam, East Parish of, 254. 

Jaalam Point, light-house on, charge 
of, prospectively offered to Mr. H. 
Biglow, 208. 

Jacobus, rex, 309. 

Jakes, Captain, 220 — reproved for 
avarice, ib. 

Jamaica, 320. 



James the Fourth, of Scots, experi- 
ment by, 186. 

Jarnagin, Mr., his opinion of the com- 
pleteness of Northern education, 
202. 

Jefferson, Thomas, well-meaning, but 
injudicious, 294. 

Jerusha, ex-Mrs. Sawin, 260. 

Jeremiah, hardly the best guide in mod- 
ern politics, 296. 

Jerome, Saint, his list of sacred writ- 
ers, 207. 

Job, Book of, 185 — Chappelow on, 
204. 

Johnson, Andrew, as he used to be, 
294 — as he is : see A mold, Bene- 
dict. 

Johnson, Mr., communicates some in- 
telligence, 202. 

Jonah, the inevitable destiny of, 203 
— probably studied internal econ- 
omy of the cetacea, 207 — his gourd, 
278 — his unanimity in the whale, 
280. 

Jonathan to J[ohn, 273. 

Jortin, Dr., cited, 194, 199, note. 

Journals, British, their brutal tone, 263. 

Juanito, 289. 

Judea, everything not known there, 
191 — not identical with A. D., 301. 

Judge, the, his garden, 263 — his hat 
covers many things, ib. 

Juvenal, a saying of, 198, note. 



Kay, Sir, the, of modern chivalry, who, 

201. 
Key, brazen one, 200. 
Keziah, Aunt, profound observation of, 

183. 
Kinderhook, 216. 

Kingdom Come, march to, easy, 211. 
Konigsmark, Count, 185. 



L. 

Lablache surpassed, 284. 

Lacedaemonians banish a great talker, 
200. 

Lamb, Charles, his epistolary excel- 
lence, 207. 



INDEX, 



339 



Latimer, Bishop, episcqpizes Satan, 185. 

Latin tongue, curious information con- 
cerning, 192. 

Launcelot, Sir, a trusser of giants for- 
merly, perhaps would find less sport 
therein now, 201. 

Laura, exploited, 313. 

Learning, three-story, 299. 

Letcher, de la vieille roche, 279. 

Letckerus, nebulo, 309. 

Letters classed, 207 — their shape, 207 
— of candidates, 208 — often fatal, 
209. 

Lettres Cabalistiques, quoted, 264. 

Lewis Philip, a scourger of young na- 
tive Americans, 199 — commiserated 
(though not deserving it), ib. note. 

Lexington, 267. 

Liberator, a newspaper, condemned by 
implication, 193. 

Liberty, unwholesome for men of cer- 
tain complexions, 204. 

Licking, when constitutional, 282. 

Lignum vitae, a gift of this valuable 
wood proposed, 189. 

Lincoln, too shrewd to hang Mason 
and Slidell, 288, 

Literature, Southern, its abundance, 
280. 

Little Big Boosy River, 260. 

Longinus recommends swearing, 186 
note (Fuseli did same thing). 

Long sweetening recommended, 211. 

Lord, inexpensive way of lending to, 

r 258. 

Lords, Southern, prove pur sang by 
ablution, 279. 

Lost arts, one sorrowfully added to list 
of, 221. 

Louis the Eleventh of France, some 
odd trees of his, 214. 

Lowell, Mr. J. R., unaccountable si- 
lence of, 192. 

Luther, Martin, his first appearance as 
Europa, 188. 

Lyaeus, 310. 

Lyttelton, Lord, his letters an imposi- 
tion, 207. 



M. 

Macrobii, their diplomacy, 209. 
Magoffin, a name naturally noble, 279. 



Mahomet, got nearer Sinai than somt, 
204. 

Mahound, his filthy gobbets, 189. 

Mandeville, Sir John, quoted, 264. 

Mangum, Mr., speaks to the point, 201. 

Manichaean, excellently confuted, 200. 

Man-trees, grew where, 214. 

Maori chieftains, 264. 

Mapes, Walter, quoted, 265— para- 
phrased, ib. 

Mares' -nests, finders of, benevolent, 
206. 

Marius, quoted, 276. 

Marshfield, 216, 218. 

Martin, Mr. Sawin used to vote for 
him, 219. 

Mason and Dixon's line, slaves north 
of, 201. 

Mason an F. F. V., 288. 

Mason and Slidell, how they might 
have been made at once useful and 
ornamental, 288. 

Mass, the, its duty defined, 201. 

Massachusetts on her knees, 183 — 
something mentioned in connection 
with, worthy the attention of tailors, 
196 — citizen of, baked, boiled, and 
roasted {nefandum /), 212. 

Masses, the, used as butter by some, 

J 97- 
Maury, an intellectual giant, twin birth 

with Simms (which see), 280. 
Mayday a humbug, 297. 
M. C, an invertebrate animal, 198. 
Me, Mister, a queer creature, 299. 
Mechanics' Fair, reflections suggested 

at, 210. 
Medium, ardentispirituale, 308. 
Mediums, spiritual, dreadful liars, 301. 
Memminger, old, 259. 
Mentor, letters of, dreary, 207. 
Mephistopheles at a nonplus, 203. 
Mexican blood, its effect in raising 

price of cloth, 215. 
Mexican polka, 189. 
Mexicans charged with various breach- 
es of etiquette, 188 — kind feelings 

beaten into them, 205. 
Mexico, no glory in overcoming, 196. 
Middleton, Thomas, quoted, 276. 
Military glory spoken disrespectfully 

of, 187, note — militia treated still 

worse, ib. 
Milk- trees, growing still, 2x4. 



3*o 

Mill, Stuart, his low ideas, 287. 
Millenniums, apt to miscarry, 306. 
Millspring, 287. _ ' 

Mills for manufacturing gabble, how 

driven, 200. 
Mills, Josiah's, 299. _ , 

Milton, an unconscious plagiary, 195, 

no t e _ a Latin verse of, cited, 204 — 

an English poet, 290 — his u Hymn 

of the Nativity," 3<>3- 
Missionaries, uset 1 to alligators, 256 

— culinary liabilities of, 278. 
Missions, a profitable kind of, 204. 
Monarch, a pagan, probably not favored 

in philosophical experiments, 186. 

Money-trees, desirable, 214 — that they 
once existed shown to be variously 
probable, ib. 

Montaigne, a communicative old Gas- 
con, 206. 

Monterey, battle of, its singular chro- 
matic effect on a species of two- 
headed eagle, 199. 

Montezuma, licked, 257. 

Montaigne, 314. 

Moody, Seth, his remarkable gun, 260 

— his brother Asaph, ib. 

Moquis Indians, praiseworthy custom 

of, 290. • 
Moses, held up vainly as an example, 

204 — construed by Joe Smith, ib. — 

(not, A. J. Moses) prudent way of 

following, 291. 
Muse invoked, 308. 
Myths, how to interpret readily, 209. 

N. 

Naboths, Popish ones, how distin- 
guished, 189. 

Nana Sahib, 264. 

Nancy, presumably Mrs. Biglow, 266. 

Napoleon III., his new chairs, 285. 

Nation, rights of, proportionate to size, 
188 — young, its first needs, 286. 

National pudding, its effect on the or- 
gans of speech, a curious physiologi- 
cal fact, 190. 

Negroes, their double usefulness, 259 

— getting too current, 286. 
Nephelim, not yet extinct, 221. 

New England overpoweringly honored, 
198 — wants no more speakers, ib. — 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



done brown by whom, ib. — her expe- 
rience in beans beyond Cicero's, 209. 

Newspaper, the, wonderful, 205 — a 
strolling theatre, ib. — thoughts sug- 
gested by tearing wrapper of, 206 — 
a vacant sheet, ib. — a sheet in which 
a vision was let down, ib. — wrapper 
to a bar of soap, ib. — a cheap im- 
promptu platter, ib. 

New World, apostrophe to, 272. 

New York, letters from, commended, 
207. 

Next life, what, 204. 

Nicotiana Tabacum, a weed, 290. 

Niggers, 184 — area of abusing extend- 
ed, 196 — Mr. Sawin's opinions of, 
219. 

Ninepence a day low for murder, 186. 

No, a monosyllable, 190 — hard to ut- 
ter, ib. 

Noah enclosed letter in bottle, proba- 
bly, 207. 

Noblemen, Nature's, 280. 

Nomas, Lapland, what, 215. 

North, the, has no business, 202 — bris- 
tling, crowded off roost, 208 — its 
mind naturally unprincipled, 295. 

North Bend, geese inhumanly treated 
at, 209 — mentioned, 216. 

North star, a proposition to indict, 
203. 

Northern Dagon, 260. 

Northmen, gens inclytissima, 289. 

Notre Dame de la Haine, 277. 

Nowhere, march to, 300. 

Now, its merits, 299. 



O'Brien, Smith, 264. 

Off ox, 208. 

Officers, miraculous transformation va 

character of, 189 — Anglo-Saxon, 

come very near being anathematized, 

ib. 
Old age, an advantage of, 262. 
Old One, invoked, 283. 
Onesimus made to serve the cause of 

impiety, 278. 
O'Phace, Increase D., Esq., speech of 

~ I ?4- ... 

Opinion, British, its worth to us, 265. 



INDEX. 



341 



Opinions, certain ones compared to 
winter flies, 275. 

Oracle of Fools, still respectfully con- 
sulted, 195. 

Orion becomes commonplace, 206. 

Orrery, Lord, his letters, (lord ! ) 207. 

Ostracism, curious species of, 195. 

Ovidii Nasonis, carmen supposititium, 
308. 

P. 

Palestine, 189. 

Paley, his Evidences, 324. 

Palfrey, Hon. J. G., 195, 198 (a worthy 
representative of Massachusetts). 

Pantagruel recommends a popular ora- 
cle, 195. 

Pan urge, 265 — his interview with 
Goatsnose, 209. 

Paper, plausible-looking, wanted, 286. 

Papists, female, slain by zealous Prot- 
estant bomb-shell, 215. 

Paralipomenon, a man suspected of be- 
ing, 209. 

Paris, liberal principles safe as far away 
as, 204. 

Parliamentum Indoctorutn sitting in 
permanence, 194. 

Past, the, a good nurse, 201. 

Patience, sister, quoted, 187. 

Patriarchs, the, illiterate, 261. 

Patricius, brogipotens, 308. 

Paynims, their throats propagandisti- 
cally cut, 189. 

Penelope, her wise choice, 192. 

People, soft enough, 205 — want cor- 
rect ideas, 213 — the, decline to be 
Mexicanized, 292. 

Pepin, King, 207. 

Pepperell, General, quoted, 266. 

Pequash Junction, 314. 

Periwig, 208. 

Perley, Mr. Asaph, has charge of bass- 
viol, 274. 

Perseus, King, his avarice, 266. 

Persius, a pithy saying of, 197, note. 

Pescara, Marquis, saying of, 185. 

Peter, Saint, a letter of (post-mortem), 
207. 

Petrarch, exploited Laura, 313. 

Petronius, 265. 

Pettibone, Jabez, bursts up, 280. 

Pettus came over with Wilhelmus Con- 
quistor, 279. 



Phaon, 313. 

Pharaoh, his lean kine, 272. 

Pharisees, opprobriously referred to, 
204. 

Philippe, Louis, in pea-jacket, 205. 

Phillips, Wendell, catches a Tartar, 
295- 

Phlegyas quoted, 203. 

Phrygian language, whether Adam 
spoke it, 186. 

Pickens, a Norman name, 279. 

Pilcoxes, genealogy of, 254. 

Pilgrim Father, apparition of, 300. 

Pilgrims, the, 196. 

Pillows, constitutional, 198. 

Pine-trees, their sympathy, 299. 

Pinto, Mr., some letters of his com- 
mended, 207. 

Pisgah, an impromptu one, 215. 

Platform, party, a convenient one, 213. 

Plato, supped with, 207 — his man, 
209. 

Pleiades, the, not enough esteemed, 
206. 

Pliny, his letters not admired, 207. 

Plotinus, a story of, 201. 

Plymouth Rock, Old, a Convention 
wrecked on, 196. 

Poets apt to become sophisticated, 297. 

Point Tribulation, Mr. Sawin wrecked 
on, 214. 

Poles, exile, whether crop of beans de- 
pends on, 188, note. 

Polk, nomen gentile, 279. 

Polk, President, synonymous with our 
country, 191 — censured, 196 — in 
danger of being crushed, 197. 

Polka, Mexican, 189. 

Pomp, a runaway slave, his nest, 219 — 
hypocritically groans like white man, 
219, 220 — blind to Christian privi- 
leges, 220 — his society valued at fifty 
dollars, ib. — his treachery, ib. — 
takes Mr. Sawin prisoner, ib. — cru- 
elly makes him work, ib. — puts him- 
self illegally under his tuition, ib.~ 
dismisses him with contumelious epi- 
thets, ib. — a negro, 256. 

Pontifical bull a tamed one, 189. 

Pope, his verse excellent, 186. 

Pork, refractory in boiling, 189. 

Portico, the, 312. 

Portugal, Alphonso the Sixth of, a 
monster, 221. 



349 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Post, Boston, 192 — shaken visibly, 193 

— bad guide-post, ib. — too swift, ib. 
edited by a colonel, ib. — who is pre- 
sumed officially in Mexico, ib. — re- 
ferred to, 199. 

Pot-hooks, death in, 210. 

Power, a first-class, elements of, 285. 

Preacher, an ornamental symbol, 204 — 
a breeder of dogmas, ib. — earnest- 
ness of, important, 221. 

Present, considered as an annalist, 204 

— not long wonderful, 206. 
President, slaveholding natural to, 205 

— must be a Southern resident, 213 

— must own a nigger, ib. — the, his 
policy, 321 — his resemblance to Jack- 
son, 322. 

Princes mix cocktails, 285. 
Principle, exposure spoils it, 195. 
Principles, bad, when less harmful, 190. 

— when useless, 294. 

Professor, Latin, in College, 308 

— Scaliger, ib. 
Prophecies, fulfilment of, 288. 
Prophecy, a notable one, 199. 
Prospect Hill, 267. 

Providence has a natural life-preserver, 
272. 

Proviso, bitterly spoken of, 208. 

Prudence, sister, her idiosyncratic tea- 
pot, 212. 

Psammeticus, an experiment of, 186. 

Psyche, poor, 314. 

Public opinion, a blind and drunken 
guide, 190 — nudges Mr. Wilbur's 
elbow, ib. — ticklers of, 197. 

Punkin Falls "Weekly Parallel," 303. 

Putnam, General Israel, his lines, 267. 

Pythagoras a bean-hater, why, 209. 

Pythagoreans, fish reverenced by, why, 



Q. 

Quid, ingens nicotianum, 310. 
Quixote, Don, 201. 

R. 

Rafn, Professor, 289. 
Rag, one of sacred college, 190. 
Rantoul, Mr., talks loudly, 187 — pious 
reason for not enlisting, ib. 



Recruiting sergeant, Devil supposed 
the first, 185. 

Religion, Southern, its commercial ad- 
vantages, 278. 

Representatives' Chamber, 200. 

Rhinothism, society for promoting, 206. 

Rhyme, whether natural not consid* 
ered, 185. 

Rib, an infrangible one, 211. 

Richard the First of England, his 
Christian fervor, 189. 

Riches conjectured to have legs as well 
as wings, 203. 

Ricos Hombres, 276. 

Ringtail Rangers, 260. 

Roanoke Island, 287. 

Robinson, Mr. John P., his opinions 
fully stated, 191, 192. 

Rocks, pocket full of, 211. 

Roosters in rainy weather, their mis- 
ery, 256. 

Rotation insures mediocrity and inex- 
perience, 282. 

Rough and ready, 217 — a wig, 218 — 
a kind of scratch, ib. 

Royal Society, American fellows of, 

3°3- 

Rum and water combine kindly, 292. 

Runes resemble bird-tracks, 290. 

Runic inscriptions, their different grades 
of unintelligibility and consequent 
value, 289. 

Russell, Earl, is good enough to ex- 
pound our Constitution for us, 263. 

Russian eagle turns Prussian blue, 199. 

Ryeus, Bacchi epithet on, 310. 



Sabbath, breach of, 186. 
Sabellianism, one accused of, 209. 
Sailors, their rights how won, 309. 
Saltillo, unfavorable view of, 187. 
Salt-river, in Mexican, what, 187. 
Samuel, avunculus, 309. 
Samuel, Uncle, 257— riotous, 198 — yet 
has qualities demanding reverence, 

204 — a good provider for his family, 

205 — an exorbitant bill of, 215—' 
makes some shrewd guesses, 273, 
274 — expects his boots, 280. 

Sansculottes, draw their wine before 

drinking, 202. 
Santa Anna, his expensive leg, 213. 



INDEX. 



343 



Sappho, some human nature in, 313. 

Sassy Cus, an impudent Indian, 266. 

Satan, never wants attorneys, 189 — an 
expert talker by signs, ib. — a suc- 
cessful fisherman with little or no 
bait, ib. — cunning fetch of, 190 — dis- 
likes ridicule, 192 — ought not to have 
credit of ancient oracles, 199, note — 
his worst pitfall, 278. 

Satirist, incident to certain dangers, 
190. 

Savages, Canadian, chance of redemp- 
tion offered to, 221. 

Sawin, B., Esquire, his letter not writ- 
ten in verse, 185 — a native of Jaalam, 

186 — not regular attendant on Rev. 
Mr Wilbur's preaching, ib. — a fool, 
ib. — his statements trustworthy, ib. 

— his ornithological tastes, ib — 
letter from, 186, 210, 216 — his curi- 
ous discovery in regard to bayonets, 

187 — displays proper family pride, 
ib. — modestly confesses himself less 
wise than the Queen of Sheba, 188 

— the old Adam in, peeps out, 1S9 

— a miles emeritus, 210 — is made 
text for a sermon, ib. — loses a leg, 
ib. — an eye, 211 — left hand, ib. — 
four fingers of right hand, ib. — has 
six or more ribs broken, ib. — a rib 
of his infrangible, ib. — allows a cer- 
tain amount of preterite greenness in 
himself, ib. — his share of spoil lim- 
ited, ib. — his opinion of Mexican 
climate, 212 — acquires property of a 
certain sort, ib. — his experience of 
glory, ib. — stands sentry, and puns 
thereupon, ib. — undergoes martyr- 
dom in some of its most painful forms, 
ib. — entersthe candidating business, 
213 — modestly states the (avail) abili- 
ties which qualify him for high polit- 
ical station, 213, 214 — has no princi- 
ples, 213 — a peaceman, ib. — un- 
pledged, ib. — has no objections to 
owning peculiar property, but would 
not like to monopolize the truth, ib. 

— his account with glory, 214 — a 
selfish motive hinted in, ib. — sails 
for Eldorado, ib. — shipwrecked on a 
metaphorical promontory, ib. — par- 
allel between, and Rev. Mr. Wil- 
bur (not Plutarchian), 215 — conjec- 
tured to have bathed in river Selem- 



nus, 216 — loves plough wisely, but 
not too well, ib. — a foreign mission 
probably expected by, ib. — unani- 
mously nominated for presidency, ib. 

— his country's father-in-law, 217 — 
nobly emulates Cincinnatus, ib. — is 
not a crooked stick, ib. — advises his 
adherents, ib. — views of, on present 
state of politics, 217-219 — popular 
enthusiasm for, at Bellers's, and its 
disagreeable consequences, 218 — in- 
human treatment of, by Bellers, ib. — 
his opinion of the two parties, ib. — 
agrees with Mr. Webster, ib. — his 
antislavery zeal, 219 — his proper 
self-respect, ib. — his unaffected piety, 
ib. — his not intemperate temperance, 
ib. — a thrilling adventure of, 219- 
221 — his prudence and economy, 
219 — bound to Captain Jakes, but 
regains his freedom, 220 — is taken 
prisoner, ib. — ignominiously treat- 
ed, 220, 221 — his consequent resolu- 
tion, 221. 

Sawin, Honorable B. O'F., a vein of 
humor suspected in, 255 — gets into 
an enchanted castle, 256 — finds a 
wooden leg better in some respects 
than a living one, ib. — takes some- 
thing hot, 257 — his experience of 
Southern hospitality, ib. — water- 
proof internally, ib. — sentenced to 
ten years' imprisonment, 25S — his 
liberal-handedness, ib. — gets his ar- 
rears of pension, 259 — marries the 
Widow Shannon, ib. — confiscated, 
260 — finds in himself a natural ne- 
cessity of income, 261 — his mission- 
ary zeal, ib. — never a stated attend- 
ant on Mr. Wilbur's preaching, 274 

— sang bass in choir, ib. — prudently 
avoided contribution toward bell, ib. 
-— abhors a covenant of works, 277 — . 
if saved at all, must be saved gen- 
teelly, ib. — reports a sermon, 278 — 
experiences religion, ib. — would con- 
sent to a dukedom, 279 — converted 
to unanimity, 280 — sound views of, 
282 — makes himself an extempore 
marquis, 283 — extract of letter from, 
324, 325 — his opinion of Paddies, 
325 — of Johnson, ib 

Sayres, a martyr, 220. 
Scaliger, saying of, 191. 



344 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



Scarabaiis pilularius, 188. 

Scott, General, his claims to the presi- 
dency, 193, 194. 

Scrimgour, Rev. Shearjashub, 312. 

Scythians, their diplomacy commend- 
ed, 209. 

Sea, the wormy, 290. 

Seamen, colored, sold, 185. 

Secessia, iicta, 309. 

Secession, its legal nature defined, 260. 

Secret, a great military, 297. 

Selemnus, a sort of Lethean river, 216. 

Senate, debate in, made readable, 200. 

Seneca, saying of, 190 — another, 199, 
note — overrated by a saint (but see 
Lord Bolingbroke's opinion of, in a 
letter to Dean Swift), 207 — his let- 
ters not commended, ib. — a son of 
Rev. Mr. Wilbur, 215 — quoted, 304. 

Serbonian bog of literature, 200. 

Sermons, some pitched too high, 275. 

Seward, Mister, the late, his gift of 
prophecy, 267 — needs stiffening, 321 
— misunderstands parable of fatted 
calf, ib. 

Sextons, demand for, 187 — heroic offi- 
cial devotion of one, 221. 

Seymour, Governor, 305. 

Shakespeare, 314 — a good reporter, 
194. 

Shaking fever, considered as an em- 
ployer, 212. 

Sham, President, honest, 196. 

Shannon, Mrs., a widow, 258 — her 
family and accomplishments, 260 — 
has tantrums, ib. — her religious 
views, 277, 278 — her notions of a 
moral and intellectual being, 279 — 
her maiden name, ib. — her blue 
blood, ib. 

Sheba, Queen of, 188. 

Sheep, none of Rev. Mr. Wilbur's 
turned wolves, 186. 

Shem, Scriptural curse of, 221. 

Shiraz Centre, lead-mine at, 280. 

Shirley, Governor, 266. 

Shoddy, poor covering for outer or in- 
ner man, 301. 

Shot at sight, privilege of being, 280. 

Show, natural to love it, 187, note. 

Silver spoon born in Democracy's 
mouth, what, 197. 

Sinai suffers outrages, 204. 

Sin, wilderness of, modern, what, 204. 



Skim-milk has its own opinions, 301. 

Skin, hole in, strange taste of some 
for, 212. 

Skippers, Yankee, busy in the slave- 
trade, 278. 

Simms, an intellectual giant, twin-birth 
with Maury (which see), 280. 

Slaughter, whether God strengthen us 
for, 189. 

Slaughterers andsoldiers compared, 216. 

Slaughtering nowadays is slaughtering, 
216. 

Slavery, of no color, 184 — corner-ston» 
of liberty, 199 — also keystone, 201 

— last crumb of Eden, 203 — a Jo- 
nah, ib. — an institution, 208 — a pri- 
vate State concern, 219. 

Slidell, New York trash, 288. 

Smith, Joe, used as a translation, 204. 

Smith, John, an interesting character, 

206. 
Smith, Mr., fears entertained for, 203 

— dined with, 207. 

Smith, N. B., his magnanimity, 205. 

Smitkius, dux, 308. 

Sloanshure, Habakkuk, Esquire, Presi- 
dent of Jaalam Bank, 283. 

Soandso, Mr., the great, defines his 
position, 205. 

Soft-heartedness, misplaced, is soft- 
headedness, 306. 

Sol, the fisherman, 188 — soundness of 
respiratory organs hypothetically at- 
tributed to, ib. 

Soldiers, British, ghosts of, insubordi- 
nate, 268. 

Solomon, Song of, portions of it done 
into Latin verse by Mr. Wilbur, 307. 

Solon, a saying of, 190. 

Soul, injurious properties of, 282. 

South, the, its natural eloquence, 295 — 
facts have a mean spite against, 288. 

South Carolina, futile attempt to an- 
chor, 201 — her pedigrees, 276. 

Southern men, their imperfect notions 
of labor, 257 — of subscriptions, 258 

— too high-pressure, 261 — prima ' 
facie noble, 279. 

Spanish, to walk, what, 188. 

Speech-making, an abuse of gift of 
speech, 200. 

Spirit-rapping^ does not repay the spir- 
its engaged in it, 301. 

Split-Foot, Old, made to squirm, 261. 



INDEX. 



345 



Spring, described, 297, 298. 

Star, north, subject to indictment, 

whether, 203. 
Statesman, a genuine, defined, 294. 
Stearns, Othniel, fable by, 323. 
Stone Spike, the, 267. _ 
Store, cheap cash, a wicked fraud, 215. 
Strong, Governor Caleb, a patriot, 192. 
Style, the catalogue, 298. 
Sumter, shame of, 271. 
Sunday should mind its own business, 

294. 
Swearing commended as a figure of 

speech, 186, note.^ 
Swett, Jethro C, his fall, 317. 
Swift, Dean, threadbare saying of, 193. 

T. 

Tag, elevated to the Cardinalate, 190. 

Taney, C. J., 282. 

Tarandfeather, Rev. Mr., 280. 

Tarbox Shearjashub, first white child 
born in Jaalam, 263. 

Tartars, Mongrel, 257. 

Taxes, direct, advantages of, 215. 

Taylor, Generah, greased by Mr. Choate, 
218. 

Taylor zeal, its origin, 218. 

Teapots, how made dangerous, 305. 

Ten, the upper, 280. 

Tesephone, banished for long winded- 
ness, 200. 

Thacker, Rev. Preserved, D.D., 302. ■ 

Thanks get lodged, 212. 

Thanksgiving, Feejee, 257. 

Thaumaturgus, Saint Gregory, letter of, 
to the Devil, 207. 

Theleme, Abbey of, 283. 

Theocritus, the inventor of idyllic poe- 
try, 262. 

Theory, defined, 292. 

Thermopyles, too many, 287. 

" They '11 say " a notable bully, 270. 

Thirty-nine articles might be made 
serviceable, 190. 

Thor, a foolish attempt of, 201. 

Thoreau, 262. 

Thoughts, live ones characterized, 315. 

Thumb, General Thomas, a valuable 
member of society, 198. 

Thunder, supposed in easy circum- 
stances, 211. 

Thynne, Mr., murdered, 185. 



Tibullus, 304. 

Time, an innocent personage to swear 
by, 186 — a scene-shifter, 206. 

Tinkham, Deacon Pelatiah, story con- 
cerning, not told, 255 — alluded to, 
262 — does a very sensible thing, 277. 

Toms, peeping, 206. 

Toombs, a doleful sound from, 288. 

Trees, various kinds of extraordinary 
ones, 214. 

Trowbridge, William, mariner, adven- 
ture of, 189. 

Truth and falsehood start from same 
point, 190 — truth invulnerable to 
satire, ib. — compared to a river, T94 
— of fiction sometimes truer than fact, 
ib. — told plainly, passim. 

Tuileries, exciting scene at, 199 — front- 
parlor of, 285. 

Tully, a saying of, 195, note. 

Tunnel, northwest-passage, a poor in- 
vestment, 283. 

Turkey- Buzzard Roost, 260. 

Tuscaloosa, 260. 

Tutchel, Rev. Jonas, a Sadducee, 291. 

Tweedledee, gospel according to, 204. 

Tweedledum, great principles of, 204. 

Tylerus, juvenis insignis, 308 — por- 
phyrogenitus, 309 — Johannides, 
flito celeris, 310 — bene titus, ib. 

Tyrants, European, how made to trem- 
ble, 258. 

U. 

Ulysses, husband of Penelope, 192 — 
borrows'money, 215 (for full partic- 
ulars of, see Homer and Dante) — 
rex, 308. 

Unanimity, new ways of producing, 280. 

Union, its hoops off, 280 — its good old 
meaning, 292. 

Universe, its breeching, 281. 

University, triennial catalogue of, 193. 

Us, nobody to be compared with, 258, 
and see World, passim. 



V. 

Van Buren fails of gaining Mr. Sawin's 
confidence, 219 — his son John re- 
proved, ib. 

Van, Old, plan to set up, 219. 



3* 



THE B I GLOW PAPERS. 



Vattel, as likely to fall on your toes as 

on mine, 273. 
Venetians invented something once, 

215. 
Vices, cardinal, sacred conclave of, 

190. 
Victoria, Queen, her natural terror, 198 

— her best carpets, 285. 
Vinland, 290, 291. 
Virgin, the, letter of, to Magistrates of 

Messina, 207. 
Virginia^ descripta % 308, 309. 
Virginians, their false heraldry, 275. 
Voltaire, esprit de, 308. 
Vratz, Captain, a Pomeranian, singular 

views of, 185. 

W. 

Wachuset Mountain, 270. 

Wait, General, 266. 

Wales, Prince of, calls Brother Jona- 
than consanguineus noster, 265 — 
but had not, apparently, consulted 
the Garter King at Arms, ib. 

Walpole, Horace, classed, 206 — his 
letters praised, 207. 

Waltham Plain, Cornwallis at, 186. 

Walton, punctilious in his intercourse 
with fishes, 190. 

War, abstract, horrid, 208 — itshoppers, 
grist of, what, 212. 

Warren, Fort, 305. 

Warton, Thomas, a story of, 194. 

Washington, charge brought against, 
217. 

Washington, city of, climatic influence 
of, on coats, 196 — mentioned, 200 — 
grand jury of, 203. 

Washingtons, two hatched at a time by 
improved machine, 217. 

Watchmanus, noctivagus, 310. 

Water, Taunton, proverbially weak, 
219. 

Water- trees, 214. 

We, 299. 

Weakwash, a name fatally typical, 266. 

Webster, his unabridged quarto, its 
deleteriousness, 308. 

Webster, some sentiments of, com- 
mended by Mr. Sawin, 218. 

Westcott, Mr., his horror, 202. 

Whig party has a large throat, 193 — 
but query as to swallowing spurs, 218. 



White-house, 208. 

Wickliffe, Robert, consequences of his 
bursting, 305. 

Wife-trees, 214. 

Wilbur, Mrs Dorcas (Pilcox), an inva- 
riable rule of, 193 — her profile, 194 

— tribute to, 303. 

Wilbur, Rev. Homer, A. M., consulted, 
183 — his instructions to his flock, 
186 — a proposition of his for Prot- 
estant bomb-shells, 190 — his elbow 
nudged, ib. — his notions of satire, ib. 

— some opinions of his quoted with 
apparent approval by Mr. Biglow, 

191 — geographical speculations of, 

192 — a justice of the peace, ib. — a 
letter of, ib. — a Latin pun of, ib. — 
runs against a post without injury, 

193 — does not seek notoriety (what- 
ever some malignants may affirm), ib. 

— fits youths for college, ib. — a 
chaplain during late war with Eng- 
land, 194 — a shrewd observation of, 
195 — some curious speculations of, 
199, 200 — his martello-tower, 200 — 
forgets he is not in pulpit, 203, 210 — 
extracts from sermon of, 203, 205 — 
interested in John Smith, 206 — his 
views concerning present state of let- 
ters, 206, 207 — a stratagem of, 209 — 
ventures two hundred and fourth in- 
terpretation of Beast in Apocalypse, 
ib. — christens Hon. B. Sawin, then 
an infant, 210 — an addition to our 
sylva proposed by, 214 — curious and 
instructive adventure of, 215 — his 
account with an unnatural uncle, 215 
— his uncomfortable imagination, 216 

— speculations concerning Cincinna- 
tus, ib. — confesses digressive ten- 
dency of mind, 221 — goes to work 
on sermon, (not without fear that his 
readers will dub him with a reproach- 
ful epithet like that with which Isaac 
Allerton, a Mayflower man, revenges 
himself on a delinquent debtor of his, 
calling him in his will, and thus hold- 
ing him up to posterity, as " John 
Peterson, The Bore,") 222 — his 
modesty, 253 — disclaims sole author- 
ship of Mr. Biglow's writings, ib. — 
his low opinion of prepensive auto- 
graphs, 254 — a chaplain in 181 2, 255 

— cites a heathen comedian, ib. — 



INDEX. 



347 



his fondness for the Book of Job, ib. — 
preaches a Fast-day discourse, ib. — 
is prevented from narrating a singular 
occurrence, ib. — is presented with 
a pair of new spectacles, 261 — his 
church services indecorously sketched 
by Mr. Sawin, 278 — hopes to deci- 
pher a Runic inscription, 283 — a 
fable by, 283, 284 — deciphers Runic 
inscription, 289-291 — his method 
therein, 290 — is ready to reconsider 
his opinion of tobacco, 291 — his opin- 
ion of the Puritans, 296 — his death, 
302 — born in Pigsgusset, ib. — letter 
of Rev. Mr. Hitchcock concerning, 
302, 303 — fond of Milton's Christ- 
mas hymn, 303 — his monument 
(proposed), ib. — his epitaph, ib. — 
his last letter, 304, 305 — his sup- 
posed disembodied spirit, 307 — ta- 
ble belonging to, ib. — sometimes 
wrote Latin verses, ib. — his table- 
talk, 311 -314 — his prejudices, 312 
»- against Baptists, ib. — his sweet 



nature, 317 — his views of style, 318 
— a story of his, 319. 

Wildbore, a vernacular one, how to 
escape, 200. 

Wilkes, Captain, borrows rashly, 268. 

Wind, the, a good Samaritan, 210. 

Wingfield, his " Memorial," 276. 

Wooden leg, remarkable for sobriety, 
211 — never eats pudding, ib. 

Woods, the. See Belmont. 

Works, covenants of, condemned, 277. 

World, this, its unhappy temper, 256. 

Wright, Colonel, providentially res- 
cued, 188. 

Writing dangerous to reputation, 254. 

Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose, 197. 

Y. 

Yankees, their worst wooden nutmegs, 
288. 



Zack, Old, 217. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

1850. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



PART I. 

SHOWING HOW HE BUILT HIS HOUSE 
AND HIS WIFE MOVED INTO IT. 

My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, 

From business snug withdrawn, 
Was much contented with a lot 
That would contain a Tudor cot 
'Twixt twelve feet square of garden- 
plot, 
And twelve feet more of lawn. 

He had laid business on the shelf 
To give his taste expansion, 

And, since no man, retired with pelf, 
The building mauia can shun, 

Knott, being middle-aged himself, 

Resolved to build (unhappy elf!) 
A mediaeval mansion. 

He called an architect in counsel ; 

" I want," said he, "a — you know 
what, 

(You are a builder, I am Knott,) 

A thing complete from chimney-pot 
Down to the very grounsel ; 

Here 's a half-acre of good land ; 

Just have it nicely mapped and 
planned 
And make your workmen drive on ; 

Meadow there is, and upland too, 

And I should like a water-view, 
D' you think you could contrive one? 

(Perhaps the pump and trough would 
do, 

If painted a judicious blue ?) 

The woodland I 've attended to : 

(He meant three pines stuck up 
askew, 
Two dead ones and a live one.) 

" A pocket-full of rocks 'twould take 
To build a house of free-stone, 

But then it is not hard to make 



What nowadays is the stone ; 
The cunning painter in a trice 
Your house's outside petrifies, 
And people think it very gneiss 

Without inquiring deeper ; 
My money never shall be thrown 
Away on such a deal of stone, 

When stone of deal is cheaper." 

And so the greenest of antiques 

Was reared for Knott to dwell in : 
The architect worked hard for week* 
In venting all his private peaks 
Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks 

Had satisfied Fluellen ; 
Whatever anybody had 
Out of the common, good or bad, 

Knott had it all worked well in, 
A donjon -keep, where clothes might 

dry, 
A porter's lodge that was a sty, 
A campanile slim and high, # 

Too small to hang a bell m ; 
All up and down and here and there, 
With Lord-knows-whats of round and 

square 
Stuck on at random everywhere, — 
It was a house to make one stare, 

All corners and all gables ; 
Like dogs let loose upon a bear, 
Ten emulous styles staboyedvAtix care, 
The whole among them seemed to tear, 
And all the oddities to spare 

Were set upon the stables. 

Knott was delighted with a pile 
Approved by fashion's leaders; 

(Only he made the builder smile, 

By asking, every little while, 

Why that was called the Twodoor style, 
Which certainly had three doors ?) 

Yet better for this luckless man 

If he had put a downright ban 
Upon the thing in limine ; 



352 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



For, though to quit affairs his plan, 
Ere many days, poor Knott began 
Perforce accepting draughts, that ran 

All ways — except up chimney ; 
The house, though painted stone to 

mock, 
With nice white lines round every block 

Some trepidation stood in, 
When tempests (with petrific shock, 
So to speak,) made it really rock, 

Though not a whit less wooden ; 
And painted stone, howe'er well done, 
Will not take in the prodigal sun 
Whose beams are never quite at one 

With our terrestrial lumber ; 
So the wood shrank around the knots, 
And gaped in disconcerting spots, 
And there were lots of dots and rots 

And crannies without number, 
Wherethrough, as you may well pre- 
sume, 
The wind, like water through a flume, 

Came rushing in ecstatic, 
Leaving, in all three floors, no room 

That was not a rheumatic ; 
And, what with points and squares and 
rounds 

Grown shaky on their poises, 
The house at nights was full of pounds, 
Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, 

raps — till — "Zounds !" 
Cried Knott, "this all goes beyond 

bounds ; 
I do not deal in tongues and sounds, 
Nor have I let my house and grounds 

To a family of Noyeses ! " 

But, though Knott's house was full of 
airs, 

He had but one — a daughter ; 
And, as he owned much stocks and 

shares, 
Many who wished to render theirs 
Such vain, unsatisfying cares, 
And needed wives to sew their tears, 

In matrimony sought her ; 
They vowed her gold they wanted not, 

Their faith would never falter, 
They longed to tie this single Knott 

In the Hymenseal halter ; 
So daily at the door they rang, 

Cards for the belle delivering, 
Or in the choir at her they sang, 
Achieving such a rapturous twang 

As set her nerves ashivering. 



Now Knott had quite made up his 
mind 

That Colonel Jones should have her ; 
No beauty he, but oft we find 
Sweet kernels 'neath a roughish rind, 
So hoped his Jenny 'd be resigned 

And make no more palaver ; 
Glanced at the fact that love was blind, 
That girls were ratherish inclined 

To pet their little crosses, 
Then nosologically defined 
The rate at which the system pined 
In those unfortunates who dined 
Upon that metaphoric kind 

Of dish — their own proboscis. 

But she, with many tears and moans, 

Besought him not to mock her, 
Said 't was too much for flesh and 

bones 
To marry mortgages and loans, 
That fathers' hearts were stocks and 

stones, 
And that she 'd go, when Mrs. Jones, 

To Davy Jones's locker ; 
Then gave her head a little toss 
That said as plain as ever was, 
If men are always at a loss 

Mere womankind to bridle — 
To try the thing on woman cross 

Were fifty times as idle ; 
For she a strict resolve had made 

And registered in private, 
That either she would die a maid, 
Or else be Mrs. Doctor Slade, 

If woman could contrive it ; 
And, though the wedding-day was set, 

Jenny was more so, rather, 
Declaring, in a pretty pet, 
That, howsoe'er they spread their net, 
She would out-Jennyral them yet, 

The colonel and her father. 

Just at this time the Public's eyes 
Were keenly on the watch, a stir 
Beginning slowly to arise 
About those questions and replies, 
Those raps that unwrapped mysteries 

So rapidly at Rochester, 
And Knott, already nervous grown 
By lying much awake alone, 
And listening, sometimes to a moan, 

And sometimes to a clatter, 
Whene'er the wind at night would rouse 
The gingerbread -work on his house, 
Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, 






THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



353 



Behind the plastering, made a towse 

About a family matter, 
Began to wonder if his wife, 
A paralytic half her life, 

Which made it more surprising, 
Might not to rule him from her urn, 
Have taken a peripatetic turn 

For want of exorcising. 

This thought, once nestled in his head, 
Erelong contagious grew, and spread 
Infecting all his mind with dread, 
Until at last he lay in bed 
And heard his wife, with well-known 

tread, 
Entering the kitchen through the shed, 

(Or was 't his fancy, mocking ?) 
Opening the pantry, cutting bread, 
And then (she 'd been some ten years 
dead) 

Closets and drawers unlocking ; 
Or, in his room (his breath grew thick) 
He heard the long-familiar click 
Of slender needles flying quick, 

As if she knit a stocking ; 
For whom? — he prayed that years 
might flit 

With pains rheumatic shooting, 
Before those ghostly things she knit 
Upon his unfleshed sole might fit, 
He did not fancy it a bit, 

To stand upon that footing ; 
At other times, his frightened hairs 

Above the bedclothes trusting, 
He heard her, full of household cares, 
(No dream entrapped in supper's 

snares, 
The foal of horrible nightmares, 
But broad awake, as he declares,) 
Go bustling up and down the stairs, 
Or setting back last evening's chairs, 

Or with the poker thrusting 
The raked - up sea - coal's hardened 

crust — 
And — what ! impossible ! it must ! 
He knew she had returned to dust, 
And yet could scarce his senses trust, 
Hearing her as she poked and fussed 

About the parlor, dusting ! 

Night after night he strove to sleep 
And take his ease in spite of it ; 
But still his flesh would chill and creep, 
And, though two night-lamps he might 
keep, 

23 



He could not so make light of it. 
At last, quite desperate, he goes 
And tells his neighbors all his woes, 

Which did but their amount enhance ; 
They made such mockery of his fears 
That soon his days were of all jeers, 

His nights of the rueful countenance ; 
" I thought most folks," one neighbor 

said, 
"Gave up the ghost when they were 

dead," 
Another gravely shook his head, 

Adding, "from all we hear, it 's 
Quite plain poor Knott is going mad — 
For how can he at once be sad 

And think he 's full of spirits ? " 
A third declared he knew a knife 

Would cut this Knott much quicker, 
" The surest way to end all strife, 
And lay the spirit of a wife, 

Is just to take and lick her ! " 
A temperance man caught up the word, 
" Ah, yes," he groaned, "I 've always 
heard 

Our poor friend somewhat slanted 
Tow'rd taking liquor overmuch ; 
I fear these spirits may be Dutch, 
(A sort of gins, or something such,) 

With which his house is haunted ; 
I see the thing as clear as light, — 
If Knott would give up getting tight, 

Naught farther would be wanted" : 
So all his neighbors stood aloof 
And, that the spirits 'neath his roof 
Were not entirely up to proof, 

Unanimously granted. 

Knott knew that cocks and sprites were 

foes, 
And so bought up, Heaven only knows 
How many, though he wanted crows 
To give ghosts caws, as I suppose, 

To think that day was breaking ; 
Moreover what he called his park, 
He turned into a kind of ark 
For dogs, because a little bark 
Is a good tonic in the dark, 

If one is given to waking ; 
But things went on from bad to worse, 
His curs were nothing but a curse, 

And, what was still more shocking, 
Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff 
And would not think of going off 

In spite of all his cocking. 



354 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Domini- 

ques, 
Malays (that did n't lay for weeks,) 

Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, 
(Waiving the cost, no trifling ill, 
Since each brought in his little bill,) 
By day or night were never still, 
But every thought of rest would kill 

With cacklings and with quorkings; 
Henry the Eighth of wives got free 

By a way he had of axing ; 
But poor Knott's Tudor henery 
Was not so fortunate, and he 

Still found his trouble waxing ; 
As for the dogs, the rows they made, 
And how they howled, snarled, barked 
and bayed, 

Beyond all human knowledge is ; 
All night, as wide awake as gnats, 
The terriers rumpused alter rats, 
Or, just for practice, taught their brats 
To worry cast-off shoes and hats, 
The bull-dogs settled private spats, 
All chased imaginary cats, 
Or raved behind the fence's slats 
At real ones, or, from their mats, 
With friends, miles off, held pleasant 

chats, 
Or, like some folks in white cravats, 
Contemptuous of sharps and flats, 

Sat up and sang dogsologies. 
Meanwhile the cats set up a squall, 
And, safe upon -the garden-wall, 

All night kept cat-a-walling, 
As if the feline race were all, 
In one wild cataleptic sprawl, 

Into love's tortures falling. 



PART II. 

SHOWING WHAT IS MEANT BY A FLOW 
OF SPIRITS. 

At first the ghosts were somewhat shy, 
Coming when none but Knott was nigh, 
And people said 't was all their eye, 
(Or rather his) a flam, the sly 

Digestion's machination ; 
Some recommended a wet sheet, 
Some a nice broth of pounded peat* 
Some a cold flat-iron to the feet, 
Some a decoction of lamb's-bleat, 



Some a southwesterly grain of wheat ; 
Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, 
Others thought fish most indiscreet, 
And that 't was worse than all to eat 
Of vegetables, sour or sweet, 
(Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,) 

In such a concatenation : 
One quack his button gently plucks 
And murmurs " biliary ducks ! " 

Says Knott, " I never ate one " ; 
But all, though brimming full of wrath, 
Homceo, Alio, Hydropath, 
Concurred in this — that t'other's path 

To death's door was the straight one. 
Still, spite of medical advice, 
The ghosts came thicker, and a spice 

Of mischief gi*ew apparent ; 
Nor did they only come at night, 
But seemed to fancy broad daylight, 
Till Knott, in horror and affright, 

His unoffending hair rent ; 
Whene'er with handkerchief on lap, 
He made his elbow-chair a trap, 
To catch an after-dinner nap, 
The spirits, always on the tap, 
Would make a sudden rap, rap, rap. 
The half-spun cord of sleep to snap, 
(And what is life without its nap 
But threadbareness and mere mishap ?) 
As 'twere with a percussion cap 

The trouble's climax capping ; 
It seemed a party dried and grim 
Of mummies had come to visit him, 
Each getting off from every limb 

Its multitudinous wrapping ; 
Scratchings sometimes the walls ran 

round, 
The merest penny-weights of sound ; 
Sometimes 'twas only by the pound 

They carried on their dealing, 
A thumping 'neath the parlor floor, 
Thump-bump-thump-bumping o'er and 

o'er, 
As if the vegetables in store 
(Quiet and orderly before) 

Were all together pealing ; 
You would have thought the thing was 

done 
By the spirit of some son of a gun, 

And that a forty-two-pounder, 
Or that the ghost which made such 

sounds 
Could be none other than John Pounds, 

Of Ragged Schools the founder. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



355 



Through three gradations of affright, 
The awful noises reached their height ; 

At first they knocked nocturnally, 
Then, for some reason, changing quite, 
(As mourners, after six months' flight, 
Turn suddenly from dark to light,) 

Began to knock diurnally, 
And last, combining all their stocks, 

(Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) 
Into one Chaos (father of Nox,) 
Nocte pluit — they showered knocks, 

And knocked, knocked, knocked, 
eternally ; 
Ever upon the go, like buoys, 
(Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys, 
They turned to troubles and a noise 

That preyed on him internally. 

Soon they grew wider in their scope ; 
Whenever Knott a door would ope, 
It would ope not, or else elope 
And fly back (curbless as a trope 
Once started down a stanza's slope 
By a bard that gave it too much rope — ) 

Like a clap of thunder slamming ; 
And, when kind Jenny brought his hat, 
(She always, when he walked, did that,) 
Just as upon his head it sat, 
Submitting to his settling pat — 
Some unseen hand would jam it flat, 
Or give it such a furious bat 

That eyes and nose went cramming 
Up out of sight, and consequently, 
As when in life it paddled free, 

His beaver caused much damning ; 
If these things seem o'er-strained to be, 
Read the account of Doctor Dee, 
'T is in our college library ; 
Read Wesley's circumstantial plea, 
And Mrs. Crowe, more like a bee, 
Sucking the nightshade's honeyed fee, 
And Stilling's Pneumatology ; 
Consult Scot, Glanvil, grave Wie- 
rus, and both Mathers ; further see, 
Webster, Casaubon, James First's trea- 
tise, a right royal Q. E. D. 
Writ with the moon in perigee, 
Bodin de Demonomanie — 
(Accent that last line gingerly) 
All full of learning as the sea 
Of fishes, and all disagree, 
Save in Sathanas apage ! 
Or, what will surely put a flea 
In unbelieving ears — with glee, 



Out of a paper (sent to me 

By some friend who forgot to P... 

A...Y... — I use cryptography 

Lest I his vengeful pen should dree — 

His P...O...S...T...A...G...E...) 

Things to the same effect I cut, 
About the tantrums of a ghost, 
Not more than three weeks since, at 
most, 

Near Stratford, in Connecticut. 

Knott's Upas daily spread its roots, 
Sent up on all sides livelier shoots, 
And bore more pestilential fruits ; 
The ghosts behaved like downright 

brutes, 
They snipped holes in his Sunday suits, 
Practised all night on octave flutes, 
Put peas (not peace) into his boots, 

Whereof grew corns in season, 
They scotched his sheets, and, what 

was worse, 
Stuck his silk nightcap full of burs, 
Till he, in language plain and terse, 
(But much unlike a Bible verse,) 
Swore he should lose his reason. 

The tables took to spinning, too, 
Perpetual yarns, and arm-chairs grew 

To prophets and apostles ; 
One footstool vowed that only he 
Of law and gospel held the key, 
That teachers of whate'er degree 
To whom opinion bows the knee 
Wern't fit to teach Truth's a. b. c. 
And were (the whole lot) to a T 

Mere fogies all and fossils ; 
A teapoy, late the property 

Of Knox's Aunt Keziah, 
(Whom Jenny most irreverently 
Had nicknamed her aunt-tipathy) 
With tips emphatic claimed to be 

The prophet Jeremiah ; 
The tins upon the kitchen-wall, 
Turned tintinnabulators all, 
And things that used to come at call 

For simple household services 
Began to hop and whirl and prance, 
Fit to put out of countenance 
The Commis and Grisettes of France 

Or Turkey's dancing Dervises. 

Of course such doings, far and wide, 
With rumors filled the country-side, 



35^ 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



And (as it is our nation's pride 
To think a Truth not verified 
Till with majorities allied) 
Parties sprung up, affirmed, denied, 
And candidates with questions plied, 
Who, like the circus-riders, tried 
At once both hobbies to bestride, 
And each with his opponent vied 

In being inexplicit. 
Earnest inquirers multiplied ; 
Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died, 
Wrote letters long, and Knott replied ; 
All who could either walk or ride 
Gathered to wonder or deride, 

And paid the house a visit ; 
Horses were at his pine-trees tied, 
Mourners in every corner sighed, 
Widows brought children there that 

cried, 
Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed, 
(People Knott never could abide,) 
Into each hole and cranny pried 
With strings of questions cut and dried 
From the Devout Inquirer's Guide, 
For the wise spirits to decide — 

As, for example, is it 
True that the damned are fried or 

boiled ? 
Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled ? 
Who cleaned the moon when it was 

soiled ? 
How baldness might be cured or foiled ? 

How heal diseased potatoes ? 
Did spirits have the sense of smell ? 
Where would departed spinsters dwell ? 
If the late Zenas Smith were well ? 
If Earth were solid or a shell ? 
Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell ? 
Did the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell ? 
What remedy would bugs expel ? 
If Paine's invention were a sell ? 
Did spirits by Webster's system spell ? 
Was it a sin to be a belle ? 
Did dancing sentence folks to hell ? 
If so, then where most torture fell — 

On little toes or great toes ? 
If life's true seat were in the brain ? 
Did Ensign mean to marry Jane ? 
By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain? 
Could matter ever suffer pain ? 
What would take out a cherry-stain ? 
Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane, 
Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine ? 
WaB Sir John Franklin sought in vain ? 



Did primitive Christians ever train ? 
What was the family-name of Cain ? 
Them spoons, were they by Betty 

ta'en ? 
Would earth-worm poultice cure a 

sprain ? 
Was Socrates so dreadful plain ? 
What teamster guided Charles's wain ? 
Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane, 
And could his will in force remain ? 
If not, what counsel to retain ? 
Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain? 
Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine ? 
Were ducks discomforted by rain ? 
How did Britannia rule the main ? 
Was Jonas coming back again ? 
Was vital truth upon the wane ? 
Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain? 
Who was our Huldah's chosen swain ? 
Did none have teeth pulled without 
payin', 

Ere ether was invented ? 
Whether mankind would not agree, 
If the universe were tuned in C. ? 
What was it ailed Lucindy's knee ? 
Whether folks eat folks in Feejee ? 
Whether his name would end with T. ? 
If Saturn's rings were two or three, 
And what bump in Phrenology 

They truly represented ? 
These problems dark, wherein they 

groped, 
Wherewith man's reason vainly coped, 
Now that the spirit-world was oped, 
In all humility they hoped 

Would be resolved instanter ; 
Each of the miscellaneous rout 
Brought his, or her, own little doubt, 
And wished to pump the spirits out, 
Through his, or her, own private spout, 

Into his or her decanter. 



PART III 

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT THE 
MOST ARDENT SPIRITS ARE MORE 
ORNAMENTAL THAN USEFUL 

Many a speculating wight 
Came by express-trains, day and night, 
To see if Knott would " sell his right," 
Meaning to make the ghosts a sight — 
What they called a " meenaygerie " ; 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



357 



One threatened, if he would not 
" trade," 

His run of custom to invade, 

(He could not these sharp folks per- 
suade 

That he wasmot, in some way, paid,) 
And stamp him as a plagiary, 

By coming down, at one fell swoop, 

With the ORIGINAL knocking 

TROUPE, 

Come recently from Hades, 
Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) 
Would ne'er rap out a hasty word 
Whence any blame might be incurred 

From the most fastidious ladies ; 
The late lamented Jesse Soule 
To stir the ghosts up with a pole 
And be director of the whole, 

Who was engaged the rather 
For the rare merits he 'd combine, 
Having been in the spirit line, 
Which trade he only did resign, 
With general applause, to shine, 
Awful in mail of cotton fine, 

As ghost of Hamlet's father ! 
Another a fair plan reveals 
Never yet hit on, which, he feels, 
To Knott's religious sense appeals — 
" We '11 have your house set up on 
wheels, 

A speculation pious ; 
For music, we can shortly find 
A barrel-organ that will grind 
Psalm-tunes, — an instrument designed 
For the New England tour — refined 
From secular drosses, and inclined 
To an unworldly turn, (combined 

With no sectarian bias ;) 
Then, travelling by stages slow, 
Under the style of Knott & Co., 
I would accompany the show 
As moral lecturer, the foe 
Of Rationalism ; you could throw 
The rappings in, and make them go 
Strict Puritan principles, you know, 
(How do you make 'em? with your 

toe ?) 
And the receipts which thence might 
flow, 

We could divide between us ; 
Still more attractions to combine, 
Beside these^ services of mine, 
I will throw in a very fine # 
(It would do nicely for a sign) 



Original Titian's Venus." 
Another offered handsome fees 
If Knott would get Demosthenes 
(Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease) 
To rap a few short sentences ; 
Or if. for want of proper keys, 

His Greek might make confusion, 
Then just to get a rap from Burke, 
To recommend a little work 

On Public Elocution. 
Meanwhile, the spirits made replies 
To all the reverent whats and whys y 
Resolving doubts of every size, 
And giving seekers grave and wise, 
Who came to know their destinies, 

A rap-turous reception ; 
When unbelievers void of grace 
Came to investigate the place, 
(Creatures of Sadducistic race, 
With grovelling intellects and base,) 
They could not find the slightest trace 

To indicate deception ; 
Indeed, it is declared by some 
That spirits (of this sort) are glum, 
Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, 
And (out of self-respect) quite mum 
To sceptic natures cold and numb, 
Who of this kind of Kingdom Come 

Have not a just conception : 
True, there were people who demurred 
That, though the raps no doubt were 
heard 

Both under them and o'er them, 
Yet, somehow, when a search they made, 
They found Miss Jenny sore afraid, 
Or Jenny's lover, Doctor Slade, 
Equally awe-struck and dismayed, 
Or Deborah, the chamber-maid, \ 

Whose terrors not to be gainsaid, 
In laughs hysteric were displayed, 

Was always there before them ; 
This had its due effect with some 
Who straight departed, muttering, 
Hum ! 

Transparent hoax ! and Gammon ! 
But these were few : believing souls 
Came, day by day, in larger shoals, 
As the ancients to the windy holes 
'Neath Delphi's tripod brought their 
doles, 

Or to the shrine of Ammon. 

The spirits seemed exceeding tame, 
Call whom you fancied, and he came ; 



358 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



The shades august of eldest fame 

You summoned with an awful ease ; 
As grosser spirits gurgled out 
From chair and table with a spout, 
In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout 
The senses of the rabble rout, 
Where'er the gimlet twirled about 

Of cunning Mephistophiles — 
So did these spirits seem in store, 
Behind the wainscot or the door, 
Ready to thrill the being's core 
Of every enterprising bore 

With their astounding glamour ; 
Whatever ghost one wished to hear, 
By strange coincidence, was near 
To make the past or future clear 

(Sometimes in shocking grammar) 
By raps and taps, now there, now 

here — 
It seemed as if the spirit queer 
Of some departed auctioneer 
Were doomed to practise by the year 

With the spirit of his hammer ; 
Whate'er you asked was answered, yet 
One could not very deeply get 
Into the obliging spirits' debt, 
Because they used the alphabet 

In all communications, 
And new revealings (though sublime) 
Rapped out, one letter at a time, 

With boggles, hesitations, 
Stoppings, beginnings o'er again, 
And getting matters into train, 
Could hardly overload the brain 

With too excessive rations, 
Since just to ask if two and two 
Really make four ? or, How cf ye 

do? 
And get the fit replies thereto 
In the tramundane rat-tat-too, _ 

Might ask a whole day's patience. 

'Twas strange ('mongst other things) to 

find 
In what odd sets the ghosts combined, 

Happy forthwith to thump any 
Piece of intelligence inspired, 
The truth whereof had been inquired 

By some one of the company ; 
For instance, Fielding, Mirabeau, 
Orator Henley, Cicero, 
Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, 
Melancthon, Robertson, Junot, 
Scaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, 



Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, 
Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, 
Odin, Arminius, Charles le gros, 
Tiresias, the late James Crow, 
Casabianca, Grose, Prideaux, 
Old Grimes, Young Norval, Swift, 

Brissot, 
Maimonides, the Chevalier D'O, 
Socrates, Fenelon, Job, Stow, 
The inventor of Elixir pro, 
Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, 
Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, 
Came (as it seemed, somewhat de trop) 
With a disembodied Esquimaux, 
To say that it was so and so, 

With Franklin's expedition ; 
One testified to ice and snow, 
One that the mercury was low, 
One that his progress was quite slow, 
One that he much desired to go, 
One that the cook had frozen his toe, 
(Dissented from by Dandolo, 
Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, 
La Hontan, and Sir Thomas Roe,) 
One saw twelve white bears in a row, 
One saw eleven and a crow, 
With other things we could not know 
(Of great statistic value, though) 

By our mere mortal vision. 

Sometimes the spirits made mistakes, 
And seemed to play at ducks and drakes 
With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes 

In science or in mystery ; 
They knew so little (and that wrong) 
Yet rapped it out so bold and strong, 
One would have said the entire throng 

Had been Professors of History ; 
What made it odder was, that those 
Who, you would naturally suppose, 
Could solve a question, if they chose, 
As easily as count their toes, 

Were just the ones that blundered > 
One day, Ulysses happening down, 
A reader of Sir Thomas Browne 

And who (with him) had wondered 
What song it was the Sirens sang, 
Asked the shrewd Ithacan — bang J 

bang ! 
With this response the chamber rang, 

" I guess it was Old Hundred." 
And Franklin, being asked to name 
The reason why the lightning came, 

Replied, " Because it thundered." 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR, KNOTT. 



359 



On one sole point the ghosts agreed, 
One fearful point, than which, indeed, 

Nothing could seem absurder ; 
Poor Colonel Jones they all abused, 
And finally downright accused 

The poor old man of murder ; 
'T was thus ; by dreadful raps was 

shown 
Some spirit's longing to make known 
A bloody fact, which he alone 
Was privy to, (such ghosts more prone 

In Earth's affairs to meddle are ;) 
Who are you ? with awe-stricken looks, 
All ask : his airy knuckles he crooks, 
And raps, " I was Eliab Snooks, 

That used to be a pedler ; 
Some on ye still are on my books ! " 
Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, 
(More fearing this than common 
spooks,) ( 

Shrank each indebted meddler ; 
Further the vengeful ghost declared 
That while his earthly life was spared, 
About the country he had fared, 

A duly licensed follower 
Of that much-wandering trade that wins 
Slow profit from the sale of tins 

And various kinds of hollow-ware ; 
That Colonel Jones enticed him in, 
Pretending that he wanted tin, 
There slew him with a rolling-pin, 
Hid him in a potato-bin, 

And (the same night) him ferried 
Across Great Pond to t'other shore, 
And there, on land of Widow Moore, 
Just where you turn to Larkin's store, 

Under a rock him buried ; 
Some friends (who happened to be by) 
He called upon to testify 
That what he said was not a lie, 

And that he did not stir this 
Foul matter, out of any spite 
But from a simple love of right ; — 

Which statements the Nine Wor- 
thies, 
Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, 
Seth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne, 
Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal- Cain, 
The owner of a castle in Spain, 
Jehanghire, and the Widow of Nain, 
(The friends aforesaid,) made more plain 

And by loud raps attested ; 
To the same purport testified 
Plato, John Wilkes, and Colonel Pride 



Who knew said Snooks before he died, 

Had in his wares invested, 
Thought him entitled to belief 
And freely could concur, in brief, 

In everything the rest did. 

Eliab this occasion seized, 
(Distinctly here the spirit sneezed,) 
To say that he should ne'er be eased 
Till Jenny married whom she pleased, 

Free from all checks and urgin's, 
(This spirit dropt his final g's) 
And that, unless Knott quickly sees 
This done, the spirits to appease, 
They would come back his life to tease, 
As thick as mites in ancient cheese, 
And let his house on an endless lease 
To the ghosts (terrific rappers these 
And veritable Eumenides) 

Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins ! 

Knott was perplexed and shook his 

head, 
He did not wish his child to wed 

With a suspected murderer, 
(For, true or false, the rumor spread,) 
But as for this roiled life he led, 
" It would not answer," so he said, 

" To have it go no furderer." 
At last, scarce knowing what it meant, 
Reluctantly he gave consent 
That Jenny, since 't was evident 
That she would follow her own bent, 

Should make her own election ; 
For that appeared the only way 
These frightful noises to allay 
Which had already turned him gray 

And plunged him in dejection. 

Accordingly, this artless maid 
Her father's ordinance obeyed, 
And, all in whitest crape arrayed, 
(Miss Pulsifer the dresses made 
And wishes here the fact displayed 
That she still carries on the trade, 
The third door south from Bagg's Ar- 
cade,) 
A very faint " I do " essayed 
And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, 
From which time forth, the ghosts were 
laid, 
And ne'er gave trouble after ; 
But the Selectmen, be it known, 



360 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 



Dug underneath the aforesaid stone, 
Where the poor pedler's corpse was 

thrown, 
And found thereunder a jaw-bone, 
Though, when the crowner sat thereon, 
He nothing hatched, except alone 

Successive broods of laughter ; 
It was a frail and dingy thing, 
In which a grinder or two did cling, 

In color like molasses, 
Which surgeons, called from far and 

wide, 
Upon the horror to decide, 

Having put on their glasses, 
Reported thus — " To judge by looks, 
These bones, by some queer hooks or 

crooks, 
May have belonged to Mr. Snooks, 
But, as men deepest-read in books 

Are perfectly aware, bones, 
If buried fifty years or so, 
Lose their identity and grow 

From human bones to bare bones.*' 

Still, if to Jaalam you go down, 
You '11 find two parties in the town, 
One headed by Benaiah Brown, 
And one by Perez Tinkham ; 
The first believe the ghosts all through 
And vow that they shall never rue 
The happy chance by which they knew 
That people in Jupiter are blue, 
And very fond of Irish stew, 



Two curious facts which Prince Lee 

Boo 
Rapped clearly to a chosen few — 

Whereas the others think 'em 
A trick got up by Doctor Slade 
With Deborah the chamber-maid 

And that sly cretur Jinny. 
That all the revelations wise, 
At which the Brownites made big eyes, 
Might have been given by Jared Keyes, 

A natural fool and ninny, 
And, last week, did n't Eliab Snooks 
Come back with never better looks, 
As sharp as new-bought mackerel 
hooks, 

And bright as a new pin, eh ? 
Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers 
(Though to be mixed in parish stirs 
Is worse than handling chestnut-burrs) 
That no case to his mind occurs 
Where spirits ever did converse 
Save in a kind of guttural Erse, 

(So say the best authorities ;) 
And that a charge by raps conveyed, 
Should be most scrupulously weighed 

And searched into, before it is 
Made public, since it may give pain 
That cannot soon be cured again, 
And one word may infix a stain 

Which ten cannot gloss over, 
Though speaking for his private part, 
He is rejoiced with all his heart 

Miss Knott missed not her lover. 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



Somewhere in India, upon a time, 
(Read it not Injah, or you spoil the 
verse,) 
There dwelt two saints whose privi- 
lege sublime 
It was to sit and watch the world grow 
worse, 
Their only care (in that delicious 
clime) 
At proper intervals to pray and curse ; 
Pracrit the dialect each prudent 

brother 
Used for himself, Damnonian for the 
other. 



One half the time of each was spent 
in praying ^ 
Forblessingson hisown unworthy head, 
The other half in fearfully portraying 
Where certain folks would go when 
they were dead ; 
This system of exchanges — there 's 
no saying 
To what more solid barter 't would have 
led, 
But that a river, vext with boils and 

swellings 
At rainy times, kept peace between 
their dwellings. 



So they two played at wordy battle- 
dore 
And kept a curse forever in the air, 
Flying this way or that from shore to 
shore ; 
No other labor did this holy pair, 
Clothed and supported from the lav- 
ish store 
Which crowds lanigerous brought with 
daily care ; 



They toiled not neither did they spin ; 

their bias 
Was tow'rd the harder task of being 

pious. 

IV. 

Each from his hut rushed six score 
times a day, 
Like a great canon of the Church full- 
rammed 
With cartridge theologic, (so to say,) 
Touched himself off, and then, recoil- 
ing, slammed 
His hovel's door behind him in away 
That to his foe said plainly, — you V/ 
be damned ; 
And so like Potts and Wainwright, 

shrill and strong 
The two D— D'd each other all day 
long. 



One was a dancing Dervise, a Mo- 
hammedan, 
The other was a Hindoo, a gymnoso- 

phist ; 
One kept his whatd'yecallit and his 

Ramadan, 
Laughing to scorn the sacred rites and 

laws of his 
Transfluvial rival, who, in turn, called 

Ahmed an 
Old top, and, as a clincher, shook across 

a fist 
With nails six inches long, yet lifted 

not 
His eyes from off his navel's mystic 

knot. 

VI. 

" Who whirls not round six thousand 

times an hour 
Will go," screamed Ahmed, "to th. 

evil place ; 



364 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



May he eat dirt, and may the dog and 

Giaour 
Defile the graves of him and all his 

race ; 
Allah loves faithful souls and gives 

them power 
To spin till they are purple in the face ; 
Some folks get you know what, but 

he that pure is 
Earns Paradise and ninety thousand 

houries." 



"Upon the silver mountain, South 

by East, 
Sits Brahma fed upon the sacred bean ; 
He loves those men whose nails are 

still increased, 
Who all their lives keep ugly, foul, and 

lean; 
'T is of his grace that not a bird or 

beast 
Adorned with claws like mine was ever 

seen ; 
The suns and stars are Brahma's 

thoughts divine 
Even as these trees I seem to see are 

mine." 



" Thou seem'st to see, indeed ! " 

roared Ahmed back ; 
"Were I but once across this plaguy 

stream, 
With a stout sapling in my hand, one 

whack 
On those lank ribs would rid thee of 

that Dream ! 
Thy Brahma-blasphemy is ipecac 
To my soul's stomach ; couldst thou 

grasp the scheme 
Of true redemption, thou wouldst 

know that Deity 
Whirls by a kind of blessed sponta- 
neity. 



" And this it is which keeps our earth 
here going 
With all the stars." — "O, vile! but 
there 's a place 

Prepared for such ; to think of Brah- 
ma throwing 



Worlds like a juggler's balls up ir*o 
Space ! 
Why, not so much as a smooth lotos 
blowing 
Is e'er allowed that silence to efface 
Which broods around Brahma, and 

our earth, 't is known, 
Rests on a tortoise, moveless as th>«i 
stone." 



So they kept up their banning amr- 

bean, 
When suddenly came floating down the 

stream 
A youth whose face like an incarnate 

paean 
Glowed, 't was so full of grandeur and 

of gleam ; 
" If there be gods, then, doubtless, 

this must be one," 
Thought both at once, and then began 

to scream, 
"Surely, whate'er immortals know, 

thou knowest, 
Decide between us twain before thou 

goest!" 



The youth was drifting in a slim oa- 
noe 
Most like a huge white waterlily's petal, 
But neither of our theologians knew 
Whereof 't was made ; whether of 
heavenly metal 
Unknown, or of a vast pearl split in 
two 
And hallowed, was a point they could 
not settle ; 
'T was good debate-seed, though, 

and bore lar^e fruit 
In after years of many a tart dispute. 



There were no wings upon the stran- 
ger's shoulders 
And yet he seemed so capable of rising 
That, had he soared like thistledown, 
beholders 
Had thought the circumstance noways 
surprising ; 
Enough that he remained, and, when 
the scolders 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



365 



Hailed him as umpire in their vocal 

prize-ring, 
The painter of his boat he lightly 

threw 
Around a lotos-stem, and brought 

her to. 



The strange youth had a look as if 
he might 
Have trod far planets where the atmos- 
phere 
(Of nobler temper) steeps the face 
with light, 
Just as our skins are tanned and freck- 
led here ; 
His air was that of a cosmopolite 
In the wide universe from sphere to 
sphere ; 
Perhaps he was (his face had such 

grave beauty) 
An officer of Saturn's guards off duty. 



Both saints began to unfold their tales 

at once, 
Both wished their tales, like simial ones, 

prehensile, 
That they might seize his ear; fool I 

knave I and dunce ! 
Flew zigzag back and forth, like strokes 

of pencil 
In a child's fingers ; voluble as duns, 
They jabbered like the stones on that 

immense hill 
In the Arabian Nights; until the 

stranger 
Began to think his ear-drums in some 

danger. 



In general those who nothing have to 
say 
Contrive to spend the longest time in 
doing it ; 
They turn and vary it in every way, 
Hashing it, stewing it, mincing it, ra- 
gouting it ; 
Sometimes they keep it purposely at 
bay, 
Then let it slip to be again pursuing it ; 
They drone it, groan it, whisper it 
and shout it, 



Refute it, flout it, swear to 't, prove 
it, doubt it. 



Our saints had practised for some 
thirty years ; 
Their talk, beginning with a single stem, 
Spread like a banyan, sending down 
live piers, 
Colonies of digression, and, in them, 
Germs of yet new migrations ; once 
by the ears, 
They could convey damnation in a hem, 
And blow the pinch of premise-prim- 
ing off 
Long syllogistic batteries, with a 
cough. 

XVII. 

Each had a theory that the human 
ear 
A providential tunnel was, which led 
To a huge vacuum (and surely here 
They showed some knowledge of the 
general head), 
For cant to be decanted through, a 
mere 
Auricular canal or raceway to be fed 
All day and night, in sunshine and in 

shower, 
From their vast heads of milk-and- 
water-power. 

XVIII. 

The present being a peculiar case, 
Each with unwonted zeal the other 
scouted, 
Put his spurred hobby through its 
every pace, 
Pished, pshawed, poohed, horribled, 
bahed, jeered, sneered, flouted, 
Sniffed, nonsensed, infideled, fudged, 
with his face 
Looked scorn too nicely shaded to be 
shouted, 
And, with each inch of person and of 

vesture, 
Contrived to hint some most disdain- 
ful gesture. 



At length, when their breath's end 
was come about, 



366 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



And both could, now and then, just 
gasp "impostor ! " 
Holding their heads thrust menacing- 
ly out, 
As staggering cocks keep up their fight- 
ing posture, 
The stranger smiled and said, " Be- 
yond a doubt 
*T is fortunate, my friends, that you 
have lost your 
United parts of speech, or it had been 
Impossible for me to get between. 



" Produce ! says Nature, — what have 

you produced ? 
A new strait-waistcoat for the human 

mind ; 
Are you not limbed, nerved, jointed, 

arteried, juiced 
As other men? yet, faithless to your 

kind, 
Rather like noxious insects you are 

used 
To puncture life's fair fruit, beneath 

the rind 
Laying your creed-eggs whence in 

time there spring 
Consumers new to eat and buzz and 

sting. 



"Work! you have no conception 

how 't will sweeten 
Your views of Life and Nature, God 

and Man ; 
Had you been forced to earn what 

you have eaten, 
Your heaven had shown a less dyspep- 
tic plan ; 
At present your whole function is to 

eat ten 
And talk ten times as rapidly as you 

can ; 
Were your shape true to cosmogonic 

laws, 
You would be nothing but a pair of 

jaws. 



"Of all the useless beings in creation 
The earth could spare most easily you 
bakers 



Of little clay gods, formed in shape 

and fashion 
Precisely in the image of their makers ; 
Why, it would almost move a saint 

to passion, 
To see these blind and deaf, the hourly 

breakers 
Of God's own image in their brother 

men, 
Set themselves up to tell the how, 

where, when, 

XXIII. 

" Of God's existence ; one's diges- 
tion 's worse — 
So makes a god of vengeance and of 
blood ; 

Another, — but no matter, they re- 
verse 
Creation's plan, out of their own vile 
mud 

Pat up a god, and burn, drown, hang, 
or curse 
Whoever worships not ; each keeps his 
stud 

Of texts which wait with saddle on 
and bridle 

To hunt down atheists to their ugly 
idol. 

XXIV. > 

" This, I perceive, has been your oc- 
cupation ; 
You should have been more usefully 
employed ; 

All men are bound to earn their daily 
ration, 
Where States make not that primal 
contract void 

By cramps and limits ; simple devas- 
tation 
Is the worm's task, and what he has 
destroyed 

His monument ; creating is man's 
work 

And that, too, something more tha 
mist and murk." 

XXV. 

So having said, the youth was seen 
no more, 

And straightway our sage Brahmin, the 
philosopher, 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



367 



Cried, " That was aimed at thee, thou 

endless bore, 
Idle and useless as the growth of moss 

over 
A rotting tree-trunk ! " "I would 

square that score 
Full soon," replied the Dervise, "could 

I cross over 
And catch thee by the beard. Thy 

nails I'd trim 
And make thee work, as was advised 

by him." 

XXVI. 

" Work ? Am I not at work from 

morn till night 
Sounding the deeps of oracles umbilical 
Which for man's guidance never 

come to light, 
With all their various aptitudes, until 

I call?" 
" And I, do I not twirl from left to 

right 
For conscience' sake ? Is that no work ? 

Thou silly gull, 
He had thee in his eye ; 't was Ga- 
briel 
Sent to reward my faith, I know him 

well." 



"T was Vishnu, thou vile whirligig !" 
and so 
The good old quarrel was begun anew ; 
One would have sworn the sky was 
black as sloe, 
Had but the other dared to call it blue ; 
Nor were the followers who fed them 
slow 
To treat each other with their curses, 
too, 
Each hating t'other (moves it tears 

or laughter?) 
Because he thought him sure of hell 
hereafter. 

XXVIII. 

At last some genius built a bridge of 

boats 

Over the stream, and Ahmed's zealots 

filed 

Across, upon a mission to (cut throats 

And) spread religion pure and unde- 



They sowed the propagandist's wild- 
est oats, 
Cutting off all, down to the smallest 
child, 

And came back, giving thanks for 
such fat mercies, 

To find their harvest gone past pray- 
ers or curses. 

XXIX. 

All gone except their saint's religious 
hops, 
Which he kept up with more than com- 
mon flourish ; 
But these, however satisfying crops 
For the inner man, were not enough to 
nourish 
The body politic, which quickly drops 
Reserve in such sad junctures, and 
turns currish ; 
So Ahmed soon got cursed for all the 

famine 
Where'er the popular voice could 
edge a damn in. 



At first he pledged a miracle quite 
boldly, 
And, for a day or two, they growled 
and waited ; 

But, finding that this kind of manna 
coldly 
Sat on their stomachs, they erelong be- 
rated 

The saint for still persisting in that 
old lie, 
Till soon the whole machine of saint- 
ship grated, 

Ran slow, creaked, stopped, and, 
wishing him in Tophet, 

They gathered strength enough to 
stone the prophet. 

XXXI. 

Some stronger ones contrived (by 

eating leather, 
Their weaker friends, and one thing or 

another) 
The winter months of scarcity to 

weather ; 
Among these was the late saint's 

younger brother, 
Who, in the spring, collecting them 

together, 



368 



AN ORIENTAL APOLOGUE. 



Persuaded them that Ahmed's holy 
pother 
Had wrought in their behalf, and that 

the place 
Of Saint should be continued to his 
race. 



Accordingly, 't was settled on the spot 
That Allah favored that peculiar breed ; 



Beside, as all were satisfied, 't would 
not 
Be quite respectable to have the need 

Of public spiritual food forgot ; 
And so the tribe, with proper forms de- 
creed 

That he, and, failing him, his next 
of kin, 

Forever for the people's good should 
spin. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON. 

AGRO DOLCE. 

The wind is roistering out of doors, 
My windows shake and my chimney 

roars ; 
My Elmwood chimneys seem crooning 

to me, 
As of old, in their moody, minor key, 
And out of the past the hoarse wind 

blows, 
As I sit in my arm-chair, and toast my 

toes. 

" Ho ! ho ! nine-and-forty," they seem 

to sing, 
" We saw you a little toddling thing. 
We knew you child and youth and man, 
A wonderful fellow to dream and plan, 
With a great thing always to come, — 

who knows? 
Well, well i 't is some comfort to toast 

one's toes. 

" How many times have you sat at gaze 
Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, 
Shaping among the whimsical coals 
Fancies and figures and shining goals ! 
What matters the ashes that cover 

those? 
While hickory lasts you can toast your 

toes. 

" O dream-ship-builder ! where are they 

all, 
Your grand three-deckers, deep-chested 

and tall, 
That should crush the waves under 

canvas piles, 
And anchor at last by the Fortunate 

Isles ? 
There 's gray in your beard, the years 

turn foes, 



While you muse in your arm-chair and 
toast your toes." 

I sit and dream that I hear, as of yore, 

My Elmwood chimneys' deep- throated 
roar ; 

If much be gone, there is much re- 
mains ; 

By the embers of loss I count my 
gains, 

You and yours with the best, till the 
old hope glows 

In the fanciful flame, as I toast my toes. 

Instead of a fleet of broad-browed 

ships, 
To send a child's armada of chips ! 
Instead of the great guns, tier on tier, 
A freight of pebbles and grass-blades 

sere ! 
" Well, maybe more love with the less 

gift goes," 
I growl, as, half moody, I toast my toes. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 

Frank-hearted hostess of the field 

and wood, 
Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading 

tree, 
June is the pearl of our New England 

year. 
Still a surprisal, though expected Jong, 
Her coming startles. Long she lies in 

wait, 
Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws 

coyly back, 
Then, from some southern ambush in 

the sky, 
With one great gush of blossom storms 

the world. 
A week ago the sparrow wa« divine ; 



372 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



The bluebird, shifting his light load of 

song 
From post to post along the cheerless 

fence, 
Was as a rhymer ere the poet come ; 
But now, O rapture ! sunshine winged 

and voiced, 
Pipe blown through by the warm wild 

breath of the West 
Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy 

cloud, 
Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in 

one, 
The bobolink has come, and, like the 

soul 
Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, 
Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what 
Save June I Dear June I Now God 

be praised for June. 

May is a pious fraud of the almanac, 
A ghastly parody of real Spring 
Shaped out of snow and breathed with 

eastern wind ; 
Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, 
And, with her handful of anemones, 
Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, 
The season need but turn his hourglass 

round, 
And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, 
Reels back, and brings the dead May 

in his arms, 
Her budding breasts and wan dislustred 

front 
With frosty streaks and drifts of his 

white beard 
All overblown. Then, warmly walled 

with books, 
While my wood-fire supplies the sun's 

defect, 
Whispering old forest-sagas in its 

dreams, 
I take my May down from the happy 

shelf 
Where perch the world's rare song- 
birds in a row, 
Waiting my choice to open with fulj 

breast, n,, 

And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er 

denied 
In-doors by vernal Chaucer, whose 

fresh woods 
Throb thick with merle and mavis all 

the yea* 



July breathes hot, sallows the cmpy 
fields, 

Curls up the wan . leaves of the lilac- 
hedge, 

And every eve cheats us with show of 
clouds 

That braze the horizon's western rim, 
or hang 

Motionless, with heaped canvas droop- 
ing idly, 

Like a dim fleet by starving men be- 
sieged, 

Conjectured half, and half descried 
afar, 

Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip 
back 

Adown the smooth curve of the oily 
sea. 

But June is full of invitations sweet, 
Forth from the chimney's yawn and 

thrice-read tomes 
To leisurely delights and sauntering 

thoughts 
That brook no ceiling narrower than the 

blue. 
The. cherry, drest for bridal, at my 

pane 
Brushes, then listens, Will he come ? 

The bee, 
All dusty as a miller, takes his toll 
Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What 

a day 
To sun me and do nothing ! Nay, 1 

think 
Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes 
The student's wiser business; the 

brain 
That forages all climes to line its cells, 
Ranging both worlds on lightest wings 

of wish, 
Will not distil the juices it has sucked 
To the sweet substance of pellucid 

thought, 
Except for him who hath the secret 

learned 
To mix his blood with sunshine, and to 

take 
The winds into his pulses. Hush ! 

'T is he ! 
My oriole, my glance of summer fire, 
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, 
Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly 

wound 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



373 



About the bough to help his housekeep- 
ing, — 
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing 

his luck, 
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, 
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, 
Divines the providence that hides and 

helps. 
Heave, hoi Heave, hoi he whistles 

as the twine 
Slackens its hold ; once more, now I 

and a flash 
Lightens across the sunlight to the 

elm 
Where his mate dangles at her cup of 

felt. 
Nor all his booty is the thread ; he 

trails 
My loosened thought with it along the 

air, 
And I must follow, would I ever find 
The inward rhyme to all this wealth of 

life. 

I care not how men trace their ances- 
try, 

To ape or Adam ; let them please their 
whim ; 

But I in June am midway to believe 

A tree among my far progenitors, 

Such sympathy is mine with all the 
race, 

Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 

There is between us. Surely there are 
times 

When they consent to own me of their 
kin, 

And condescend to me, and call me 
cousin, 

Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest 
time, 

Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with 
thrills 

Moving the lips, though fruitless of the 
words. 

And I have many a lifelong leafy 
friend, 

Never estranged nor careful of my 
soul, 

That knows I hate the axe, and wel- 
comes me 

Within his tent as if I were a bird, 

Or other free companion of the earth, 

Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. 



Among them one, an ancient willow, 

spreads 
Eight balanced limbs, springing at once 

all round 
His deep-ridged trunk with upward 

slant diverse, 
In outline like enormous beaker, fit 
For hand of Jotun, where 'mid snow 

and mist 
He holds un wieldly revel. This tree, 

spared, 
I know not by what grace, — for in the 

blood 
Of our New World subduers lingers yet 
Hereditary feud with trees, they being 
(They and the red-man most) our 

fathers' foes, — 
Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, 
The seventh fallen, that lean along the 

brink 
Where the steep upland dips into the 

marsh, 
Their roots, like molten metal cooled 

in flowing, 
Stiffened in coils and runnels down the 

bank. 
The friend of all the winds, wide-armed 

he towers 
And glints his steely aglets in the sun, 
Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom 
Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when 

a shoal 
Of devious minnows wheel from where 

a pike 
Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, 

and whirl 
A rood of silver bellies to the day. 

Alas ! no acorn from the British oak 

'Neath which slim fairies tripping 
wrought those rings 

Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside 
life 

Did with the invisible spirit of Nature 
wed, 

Was ever planted here ! No darnel 
fancy 

Might choke one useful blade in Puri- 
tan fields ; 

With horn and hoof the good old Devil 
came, 

The witch's broomstick was not contra- 
band, 

But all that superstition had of fair, 



374 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. 
And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, 
Fearing their god as if he were a wolf 
That snuffed round every home and 

was not seen, 
There should be some to watch and 

keep alive 
All beautiful beliefs. And such was 

that, — 
By solitary shepherd first surmised 
Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some 

maid 
Of royal stirp, that silent came and 

vanished, 
As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor 

dared 
Confess a mortal name, — that faith 

which gave 
A Hamadryad to each tree ; and I 
Will hold it true that in this willow 

dwells 
The open-handed spirit, frank and 

blithe, 
Of ancient Hospitality, long since, 
With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of 

doors. 

In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree 

While the blithe season comforts every 
sense, 

Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals 
the heart, 

Brimming it o'er with sweetness una- 
wares, 

Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow 

Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up 

And tenderly lines some last-year rob- 
in's nest. 

There muse I of old times, old hopes, 
old friends, — 

Old friends ! The writing of those 
words has borne 

My fancy backward to the gracious past, 

The generous past, when all was pos- 
sible, 

For all was then untried ; the years be- 
tween 

Have taught some sweet, some bitter 
lessons, none 

Wiser than this, — to spend in all things 
else, 

But of old friends to be most miserly. 

Each year to ancient friendships adds 
a ring, 



As to an oak, and precious more and 

more, 
Without deservingness or help of ours, 
They grow, and, silent, wider spread, 

each year, 
Their unbought ring of shelter or of 

shade. 
Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, 
Which Nature's milliners would scrape 

away ; 
Most dear and sacred every withered 

limb! 
'T is good to set them early, for our 

faith 
Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles 

come, 
Few plant, but water dead ones with 

vain tears. 

This willow is as old to me as life ; 
And under it full often have I stretched, 
Feeling the warm earth like a thing 

alive, 
And gathering virtue in at every pore 
Till it possessed me wholly, and 

thought ceased, 
Or was transfused in something to 

which thought 
Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself 

was lost, 
Gone from me like an ache, and what 

remained 
Became a part of the universal joy. 
My soul went forth, and, mingling with 

the tree, 
Danced in the leaves ; or, floating in 

the cloud, 
Saw its white double in the stream be- 
low ; 
Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy, 
Dilated in the broad blue over all. 
I was the wind that dappled the lush 

grass, 
The tide that crept with coolness to its 

roots, 
The thin-winged swallow skating on the 

air; 
The life that gladdened everything was 

mine. 
Was I then truly all that I beheld? 
Or is this stream of being but a glass 
Where the mind sees its visionary self, 
As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his 

bay, 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



37$ 



Across the river's hollow heaven below 
His picture flits, — another, yet the 

same? 
But suddenly the sound of human voice 
Or footfall, like the drop a chemist 

pours, 
Doth in opacous cloud precipitate 
The consciousness that seemed but now 

dissolved 
Into an essence rarer than its own, 
And I am narrowed to myself once more. 

For here not long is solitude secure, 

Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. 

Here, sometimes, in this paradise of 
shade, 

Rippled with western winds, the dusty 
Tramp, 

Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, 

Halts to unroll his bundle of strange 
food 

And munch an unearned meal. I can- 
not help 

Liking this creature, lavish Summer's 
bedesman, 

Who from the almshouse steals when 
nights grow warm, 

Himself his large estate and onlycharge, 

To be the guest of haystack or of hedge, 

Nobly superior to the household gear 

That forfeits us our privilege of nature. 

I bait him with my match-box and my 
pouch, 

Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of 
smoke, 

His equal now, divinely unemployed. 

Some smack of Robin Hood is in the 
man, 

Some secret league with wild wood- 
wandering things ; 

He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot 
Earl, 

By right of birth exonerate from toil, 

Who levies rent from us his tenants all, 

And serves the state by merely being. 
Here 

The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his 
hat, 

And lets the kind breeze, with its deli- 
cate fan, 

Winnow the heat from out his dank 
gray hair, — 

A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered 



Whose feet are known to a41 the popu- 
lous ways, 
And many men and manners he hath 

seen, 
Not without fruit of solitary thought. 
He, as the habit is of lonely men, — 
Unused to try the temper of their mind 
In fence with others, — positive andshv, 
Yet knows to put an edge upon his 

speech, 
Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. 
Him I entrap with my long-suffering 

knife, 
And, while its poor blade hums away in 

sparks, 
Sharpen my wit upon his gritty mind, 
In motion set obsequious to his wheel, 
And in its quality not much unlike. 

Nor wants my tree more punctual vis- 
itors. 
The children, they who are the only rich, 
Creating for the moment, and possessing 
Whate'er they choose to feign, — for 

still with them 
Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother, 
Strewing their lives with cheap material 
For winged horses and Aladdin's lamps, 
Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch 

profane 
To dead leaves disenchanted, — long 

ago 
Between the branches of the tree fixed 

seats, 
Making an o'erturned box their table. 

Oft 
The shrilling girls sit here between 

school hours, 
And play at What 's my thought like ? 

while the boys, 
With whom the age chivalric ever bides, 
Pricked on by knightly spur of female 

eyes, 
Climb high to swing and shout on 

perilous boughs, 
Or, from the willow's armory equipped 
With musket dumb, green banner, 

edgeless sword, 
Make good the rampart of their tree- 
redoubt 
'Gainst eager British storming from be- 
low, 
And keep alive the tale of Bunker's 
Hill. 



376 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



Here, too, the men that mend our vil- 
lage ways, 

Vexing McAdam's ghost with pounded 
slate, 

Their nooning take ; much noisy talk 
they spend 

On horses and their ills ; and, as John 
Bull 

Tells of Lord This or That, who was 
his friend, 

So these make boast of intimacies long 

With famous teams, and add large esti- 
mates, 

By competition swelled from mouth to 
mouth, 

Of how much they could draw, till one, 
ill pleased 

To have his legend overbid, retorts : 

" You take and stretch truck-horses in 
a string 

From here to Long Wharf end, one 
thing I know, 

Not heavy neither, they could never 
draw, •*=* 

Ensign's long bow ! " Then laughter 
loud and long. 

So they in their leaf-shadowed micro- 
cosm 

Image the larger world ; for wheresoe'er 

Ten men are gathered, the observant 
eye 

Will find mankind in little, as the stars 

Glide up and set, and all the heavens 
revolve 

In the small welkin of a drop of dew. 

I love to enter pleasure by a postern, 
Not the broad popular gate that gulps 

the mob ; 
To find my theatres in roadside nooks, 
Where men are actors, and suspect it 

not ; 
Where Nature all unconscious works 

her will, 
And every passion moves with human 

gait, 
Unhampered by the buskin or the train. 
Hating the crowd, where we gregarious 

men 
Lead lonely lives, I love society, 
Nor seldom find the best with simple 

souls 
Unswerved by culture from their native 

bent, 



The ground we meet on being primal 

man 
And nearer the deep bases of our lives. 

But O, half heavenly, earthly half, my 

soul, 
Canst thou from those late ecstasies 

descend, 
Thy lips still wet with the miraculous 

wine 
That transubstantiates all thy baser 

stuff 
To such divinity that soul and sense, 
Once more commingled in their source, 

are lost, — 
Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar 

thirst 
With the mere dregs and rinsings of 

the world ? 
Well, if my nature find her pleasure so, 
I am content, nor need to blush ; I take 
My little gift of being clean from God, 
Not haggling for a better, holding it 
Good as was ever any in the world, 
My days as good and full of miracle. 
I pluck my nutriment from any bush, 
Finding out poison as the first men did 
By tasting and then suffering, if I must. 
Sometimes my bush burns, and some- 
times it is 
A leafless wilding shivering by the wall ; 
Butlhaveknownwhenwinterbarberries 
Pricked the effeminate palate with sur- 
prise 
Of savor whose mere harshness seemed 
divine, 

O, benediction of the higher mood 
And human-kindness of the lower ! for 

both 
I will be grateful while I live, nor ques* 

tion 
The wisdom that hath made us what 

we are, , 
With such large range as from the ale- 
house bench 
Can reach the stars and be with both at 

home. 
They tell us we have fallen on prosy 

days, 
Condemned to glean the leavings of 

earth's feast 
Where gods and heroes took delight of 

old; 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



377 



But though our lives, moving in one 
dull round 

Of repetition infinite, become 

Stale as a newspaper once read, and 
though 

History herself, seen in her workshop, 
seem 

To have lost the art that dyed those 
glorious panes, 

Rich with memorial shapes of saint and 
sage, 

That pave with splendor the Past's 
dusky aisles, — 

Panes that enchant the light of common 
day 

With colors costly as the blood of kings, 

Until it edge our thought with hues 
ideal, — 

Yet while the world is left, while nature 
lasts 

And man the best of nature, there shall 
be 

Somewhere contentment for these hu- 
man hearts, 

Some freshness, some unused material 

For wonder and for song. I lose my- 
self 

In other ways where solemn guide- 
posts say, 

This way to Knowledge., This way to 
Repose, 

But here, here only, I am ne'er be- 
trayed, 

For every by-path leads me to my love. 

God's passionless reformers, influences, 
That purify and heal and are not seen, 
Shall man say whence your virtue is, 

or how 
Ye make medicinal the wayside weed ? 
I know that sunshine, through what- 
ever rift 
How shaped it matters not, upon my 

walls 
Paints discs as perfect-rounded as its 

source, 
And, like its antitype, the ray divine, 
However finding entrance, perfect still, 
Repeats the image unimpaired of God. 

We, who by shipwreck only find the 

shores 
Of divine wisdom, can but kneel at 

first; 



Can but exult to feel beneath our feet, 
That long stretched vainly down the 

yielding deeps, 
The shock and sustenance of solid earth; 
Inland afar we see what temples gleam 
Through immemorial stems of sacred 

groves, 
And we conjecture shining shapes 

therein ; 
Yet for a space we love to wonder here 
Among the shells and sea- weed of the 

beach. 

So mused I once within my willow-tent 
One brave June morning, when the 

bluff northwest, 
Thrusting aside a dank and snuffling 

day 
That made us bitter at our neighbors* 

sins, 
Brimmed the great cup of heaven with 

sparkling cheer 
And roared a lusty stave ; the sliding 

Charles, 
Blue toward the west, and bluer and 

more blue, 
Living and lustrous as a woman's 

eyes 
Look once and look no more, with 

southward curve 
Ran crinkling sunniness, like Helen's 

hair 
Glimpsed in Elysium, insubstantial 

gold; 
From blossom-clouded orchards, far 

away 
The bobolink tinkled ; the deep mead- 
ows flowed 
With multitudinous pulse of light and 

shade 
Against the bases of the southern 

hills, 
While here and there a drowsy island 

rick 
Slept and its shadow slept ; the wood- 
en bridge 
Thundered, and then was silent ; on 

the roofs 
The sun-warped shingles rippled with 

the heat ; 
Summer on field and hill, in heart and 

brain, 
All life washed clean in this high tide 

of June. 



DARA. 



DARA. 

When Persia's sceptre trembled in a 

hand 
Wilted with harem-heats, and all the 

land 
Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
That snuff decaying empire from afar, 
Then, with a nature balanced as a star, 
Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. 

He who had governed fleecy subjects 

well 
Made his own village by the selfsame 

spell 
Secure and quiet as a guarded fold ; 
Then, gathering strength by slow and 

wise degrees 
Under his sway, to neighbor villages 
Order returned, and faith and justice 

old. 

Now when it fortuned that a king more 
wise 

Endued the realm with brain and hands 
and eyes, 

He sought on every side men brave 
and just ; 

And having heard our mountain shep- 
herd's praise, 

How he refilled the mould of elder 
days, 

To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 

So Dara shepherded a province wide, 
Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took - more 

pride 
Than in his crook before ; but envy 

finds 
More food in cities than on mountains 

bare ; 
And the frank sun of natures clear and 

rare , 

Breeds poisonous fogs in low and mar- 

ish minds. 

Soon it was hissed into the royal ear, 
That, though wise Dara's province, year 

by year, 
Like a great sponge, sucked wealth and 

plenty up, 
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's 

behest, 



Some yellow drops, more rich than all 

the rest. 
Went to the filling of his private cup. 

For proof, they said, that, wheresoe'er 

he went, 
A chest, beneath whose weight the 

camel bent, 
Went with him ; and no mortal eye had 

seen 
What was therein, save only Dara's 

own ; 
But, when 't was opened, all his tent 

was known 
To glow and lighten with heaped jewels' 

sheen. 

The King set forth for Dara's province 

straight ; 
There, as was fit, outside the city's 

? ate > 
The viceroy met him with a stately 

train, 
And there, with archers circled, close 

at hand, 
A camel with the chest was seen to 

stand : 
The King's brow reddened, for the guilt 

was plain. 

" Open me here," he cried, " this 
treasure-chest ! " 

'T was done ; and only a worn shep- 
herd's vest 

Was found therein. Some blushed and 
hung the head ; 

Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof 

He stood, and " O my lord, behold the 
proof 

That I was faithful to my trust," he 
said. 

" To govern men, lo all the spell I had ! 
My soul in these rude vestments ever 

clad 
Still to the unstained past kept true and 

leal, 
Still on these plains could breathe her 

mountain air, 
And fortune's heaviest gifts serenely 

bear, 
Which bend men from their truth and 

make them reel. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.— THE SINGING LEAVES. 379 



" For ruling wisely I should have small 
skill, 

Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; 

That sceptre kept, I could not lose my 
way." 

Strange dew in royal eyes grew round 
and bright, 

And strained the throbbing lids ; be- 
fore 't was night 

Two added provinces blest Dara's 
sway. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 

The stiff rails were softened to swan's- 
down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, " Father, who makes it 
snow ? " 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so 
high. 



I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 
" The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall ! " 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed 
her ; 
And she, kissing back, could not 
know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 

A BALLAD. 
I. 

" What fairings will ye that I bring ? " 
Said the King to his daughters three ; 

" For I to Vanity Fair am boun, 
Now say what shall they be ? " 

Then up and spake the eldest daughter, 

That lady tall and grand : 
" O, bring me pearls and diamonds 
great, 

And gold rings for my hand." 

Thereafter spake the second daughter, 
That was both white and red : 

" For me bring silks that will stand 
alone, 
And a gold comb for my head." 

Then came the turn of the least daugh- 
ter, 
That was whiter than thistle-down, 
And among the gold of her blithesome 
hair 
Dim shone the golden crown. 

" There came a bird this morning, 
And sang 'neath my bower eaves, 

Till I dreamed, as his music made me, 
' Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.' " 



3 8o 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 






Then the brow of the King swelled 
crimson 

With a flush of angry scorn : 
" Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, 

And chosen as ye were born ; 

" Bat she like a thing of peasant race, 

That is happy binding the sheaves" ; 

Then he saw her dead mother in her 

face, 

And said, " Thou shalt have thy 

leaves." 



He mounted and rode three days and 
nights 
Till he came to Vanity Fair, 
And 't was easy to buy the gems and 
the silk, 
But no Singing Leaves were there. 

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, 

And asked of every tree, 
" O, if you have ever a Singing Leaf, 

I pray you give it me 1 " 

But the trees all kept their counsel, 
And never a word said they, 

Only there sighed from the pine-tops 
A music of seas far away. 

Only the pattering aspen 

Made a sound of growing rain, 

That fell ever faster and faster, 
Then faltered to silence again. 

" O, where shall I find a little foot-page 
That would win both hose and shoon, 

And will bring to me the Singing Leaves 
If they grow under the moon? " 

Then lightly turned him Walter the 
page, 

By the stirrup as he ran : 
" Now pledge ye me the truesome word 

Of a king and gentleman, 

" That you will give me the first, first 
thing 
You meet at your castle-gate, 
And the Princess shall get the Singing 
Leaves, 
Or mine be a traitor's fate." 



The King's head dropt upon his breast 

A moment, as it might be ; 
'T will be my dog, he thought, and said, 

" My faith I plight to thee." 

Then Walter took from next his heart 

A packet small and thin, 
"Now give you this to the Princess 
Anne, 

The Singing Leaves are therein." 

III. 
As the King rode in at his castle-gate, 

A maiden to meet him ran, 
And " Welcome, father ! " she laughed 
and cried 
Together, the Princess Anne. 

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth 
he, 

" And woe, but they cost me dear ! " 
She took the packet, and the smile 

Deepened down beneath the tear. 

It deepened down till it reached her 
heart, 

And then gushed up again, 
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun 

Transfigures the summer rain. 

And the first Leaf, when it was opened, 
Sang : " I am Walter the page, 

And the songs I sing 'neath thy window 
Are my only heritage." 

And the second Leaf sang : " But in 
the land 

That is neither on earth or sea, 
My lute and I are lords of more 

Than thrice this kingdom's fee." 

And the third Leaf sang, " Be mine ! 
Be mine ! " 

And ever it sang, " Be mine ! " 
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, 

And said, " I am thine, thine, thine ! " 

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough. 
At the second she turned aside, 

At the third, 't was as if a lily flushed 
With a rose's red heart's tide. 

" Good counsel gave the bird," said she, 
" I have my hope thrice o'er, 



SEA-WEED. — THE FINDING OF THE LYRE. 



38x 



For they sing to my very heart," she 
said, 
"And it sings to them evermore." 

She brought to him her beauty and 
truth, 
But and broad earldoms three, 
And he made her queen of the broader 
lands 
He held of his lute in fee. 



SEA-WEED. 

Not always unimpeded can I pray, 
Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession 

claim ; 
Too closely clings the burden of the 

day, 
And all the mint and anise that I pay 
But swells my debt and deepens my 

self-blame. 

Shall I less patience have than Thou, 

who know 
That Thou revisit'st all who wait for 

thee, 
Nor only fill'st the unsounded deeps 

below, 
But dost refresh with punctual overflow 
The rifts where unregarded mosses be ? 

The drooping sea-weed hears, in night 
abyssed, 

Far and more far the wave's receding 
shocks, 

Nor doubts, for all the darkness and 
the mist, 

That the pale shepherdess will keep her 
tryst, 

And shoreward lead again her foam- 
fleeced flocks. 

For the same wave that rims the Carib 
shore 

With momentary brede of pearl and 
gold, 

Goes hurrying thence to gladden with 
its roar 

Lorn weeds bound fast on rocks of Lab- 
rador, 

By love divine on one sweet errand 
rolled. 



And, though Thy healing waters far 
withdraw, 

I, too, can wait and feed on hope of 
Thee 

And of the dear recurrence of Thy law, 

Sure that the parting grace that morn- 
ing saw 

Abides its time to come in search of me. 



THE FINDING OF THE LYRE. 

There lay upon the ocean's shore 
What once a tortoise served to cover. 
A year and more, with rush and roar, 
The surf had rolled it over, 
Had played with it, and flung it by, 
As wind and weather might decide it, 
Then tossed it high where sand-drifts 

dry 
Cheap burial might provide it. 

It rested there to bleach or tan, 

The rains had soaked, the suns had 

burned it ; 
With many a ban the fisherman 
Had stumbled o'er and spurned it ; 
And there the fisher-girl would stay, 
Conjecturing with her brother 
How in their play the poor estray 
Might serve some use or other. 

So there it lay, through wet and dry, 
As empty as the last new sonnet, 
Till by and by came Mercury, 
And, having mused upon it, 
" Why, here," cried he, " the thing of 

things 
In shape, material, and dimension ! 
Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, 
A wonderful invention ! " 

So said, so done ; the chords he strained, 
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, 
The shell disdained a soul had gained, 
The lyre had been discovered. 
O empty world that round us lies, 
Dead shell, of soul and thought for- 
saken, 
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, 
In thee what songs should waken 1 



382 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1850.— FOR AN AUTOGRAPH. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1850. 

This is the midnight of the century, — 

hark! 
Through aisle and arch of Godminster 

have gone 
Twelve throbs that tolled the zenith of 

the dark, 
And mornward now the starry hands 

move on ; 
" Mornward ! " the angelic watchers 

say, 
" Passed is the sorest trial ; 
No plot of man can stay 
The hand upon the dial ; 
Night is the dark stem of the lily Day." 

If we, who watched in valleys here be- 
low, 

Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, 
our faces turned 

When volcan glares set all the east 
aglow, — 

We are not poorer that we wept and 
yearned ; 

Though earth swing wide from God's 
intent, 

And though no man nor nation 

Will move with full consent 

In heavenly gravitation, 

Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent. 



FOR AN AUTOGRAPH. 

Though old the thought and oft ex- 

prest, 
'T is his at last who says it best, — 
I '11 try my fortune with the rest. 

Life is a leaf of paper white 
Whereon each one of us may write 
His word or two, and then comes night. 

" Lo, time and space enough," we cry, 
" To write an epic ! " so we try 
Our nibs upon the edge, and die. 

Muse not which way the pen to hold, 
Luck hates the slow and loves the bold, 
Soon come the darkness and the cold. 



Greatly begin ! though thou have time 
But for a line, be that sublime, — 
Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 

Ah, with what lofty hope we came ! 
But we forget it, dream of fame, 
And scrawl, as I do here, a name. 



AL FRESCO. * 

The dandelions and buttercups 
Gild all the lawn ; the drowsy bee 
Stumbles among the clover-tops, 
And summer sweetens all but me : 
Away, unfruitful lore of books, 
For whose vain idiom we reject 
The soul's more native dialect, 
Aliens among the birds and brooks, 
Dull to interpret or conceive 
What gospels lost the woods retrieve ! 
Away, ye critics, city-bred, 
Who set man-traps of thus and so, 
And in the first man's footsteps tread, 
Like those who toil through drifted 

snow ! 
Away, my poets, whose sweet spell 
Can make a garden of a cell ! 
I need ye not, for I to-day 
Will make one long sweet verse of play. 

Snap, chord of manhood's tenser 

strain ! 
To-day I will be a boy again ; 
The mind's pursuing element, 
Like a bow slackened and unbent, 
In some dark corner shall be leant. 
The robin sings, as of old, from the 

limb! 
The cat-bird croons in the lilac-bush ! 
Through the dim arbor, himself more 

dim, 
Silently hops the hermit-thrush, 
The withered leaves keep dumb for him; 
The irreverent buccaneering bee 
Hath stormed and rifled the nunnery 
Of the lily, and scattered the sacred floor 
With ha.ste-dropt gold from shrine to 

door; 
There, as of yore, 
The rich, milk-tingeing buttercup 
Its tiny polished urn holds up, 
Filled with ripe summer to the edge, 



AL FKESCO. — MASACC/O. 



383 



The sun in his own wine to pledge ; 
And our tall elm, this hundredth year 
Doge of our leafy Venice here, 
Who, with an annual ring, doth wed 
The blue Adriatic overhead, 
Shadows with his palatial mass 
The deep canals of flowing grass. 

O unestranged birds and bees ! 
O face of nature always true ! 
O never-unsympathizing trees ! 

never-rejecting roof of blue, 
Whose rash disherison never falls 
On us unthinking prodigals, 

Yet who convictest all our ill, 
So grand and unappeasable ! 
Methinks my heart from each of these 
Plucks part of childhood back again, 
Long there imprisoned, as the breeze 
Doth every hidden odor seize 
Of wood and water, hill and plain. 
Once more am I admitted peer 
In the upper house of Nature here, 
And feel through all my pulses run 
The royal blood of breeze and sun. 

Upon these elm-arched solitudes 
No hum of neighbor toil intrudes ; 
The only hammer that I hear 
Is wielded by the woodpecker, 
The single noisy calling his 
In all our leaf-hid Sybaris ; 
The good old time, close-hidden here, 
Persists, a loyal cavalier, 
While Roundheads prim, with point of 

fox, 
Probe wainscot-chink and empty box ; 
Here no hoarse-voiced iconoclast 
Insults thy statues, royal Past ; 
Myself too prone the axe to wield, 

1 touch the silver side of the shield 
With lance reversed, and challenge 

peace, 
A willing convert of the trees. 

How chanced it that so long I tost 
A cable's length from this rich coast, 
With foolish anchors hugging close 
The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze, 
Nor had the wit to wreck before 
On this enchanted island's shore, 
Whither the current of the sea, 
With wiser drift, persuaded me ? 



O, might we but of such rare days 
Build up the spirit's dwelling-place ! 
A temple of so Parian stone 
Would brook a marble god alone, 
The statue of a perfect life, 
Far-shrined from earth's bestaining 

strife, 
Alas ! though such felicity 
In our vext world here may not be, 
Yet, as sometimes the peasant's hut 
Shows stones which old religion cut 
With text inspired, or mystic sign 
Of the Eternal and Divine, 
Torn from the" consecration deep 
Of some fallen nunnery's mossy sleep, 
So, from the ruins of this day 
Crumbling in golden dust away, 
The soul one gracious block may draw, 
Carved with some fragment of the law, 
Which, set in life's uneven wall, 
Old benedictions may recall, 
And lure some nunlike thoughts to take 
Their dwelling here for memory's sake. 



MASACCIO. 

(in the brancacci chapel.) 

He came to Florence long ago, 
And painted here these walls, that shone 
For Raphael and for Angelo, 
With secrets deeper than his own, 
Then shrank into the dark again, 
And died, we know not how or when. 

The shadows deepened, and I turned 
Half sadly from the fresco grand ; 
" And is this," mused I, " all ye earned, 
High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, 
That ye to greater men could teach 
The skill yourselves could never 
reach ? " 

" And who were they," I mused, " that 

wrought 
Through pathless wilds, with laborlong, 
The highways of our daily thought ? 
Who reared those towers of earliest 

song 
That lift us from the throng to peace 
Remote in sunny silences ? " 



384 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. — GODMINSTER CHIMES. 



Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, 
And to my heart this message came : 
Each clamorous throat amongthem tells 
What strong-souled martyrs died in 

flame 
To make it possible that thou 
Shouldst here with brother sinners bow. 

Thoughts that great hearts once broke 

for, we 
Breathe cheaply in the common air ; 
The dust we trample heedlessly 
Throbbed once in saints and heroes 

rare, 
Who perished, opening for their race 
New pathways to the commonplace. 

Henceforth, when rings the health to 

those 
Who live in story and in song, 
O nameless dead, who now repose 
Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong, 
One cup of recognition true 
Shall silently be drained to you I 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 
Looks through the side-light of the 
door; 

I hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 
He envies me my brilliant lot, > 

Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 
And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 
A silken wonder by my side, 

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 
Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 
'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled 
load ; 

And wishes me some dreadful harm, 
Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 



The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win. 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms, 

And drag my lady's-chains and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

O, could he have my share of din, 
And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 

'T would still be one man bored within, 
And just another bored without. 



GODMINSTER CHIMES. 

WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS 
FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE. 

Godminster ? Is it Fancy's play ? 

I know not, but the word 
Sings in my heart, nor can I say 

Whether 't was dreamed or heard ; 
Yet fragrant in my mind it clings 

As blossoms after rain, 
And builds of half-remembered things 

This vision in my brain. 

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries 

My spirit walks in thought, 
And to that symbol lifts its eyes 

Which God's own pity wrought ; 
From Calvary shines the altar's gleam, 

The Church's East is there, 
The Ages one great minster seem, 

That throbs with praise and prayer. 

And all the way from Calvary down 

The carven pavement shows 
Their graves who won the martyr's 
crown 

And safe in God repose ; 
The saints of many a warring creed 

Who now in heaven have learned 
That all paths to the Father lead 

Where Self the feet have spurned. 

And, as the mystic aisles I pace, 
By aureoled workmen built, 

Lives ending at the Cross I trace 
Alike through grace and guilt ; 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 



385 



One Mary bathes the blessed feet 
With ointment from her eyes, 

With spikenard one, and both are sweet, 
For both are sacrifice. 

Moravian hymn and Roman chant 

In one devotion blend, 
To speak the soul's eternal want 

Of Him, the inmost friend ; 
One prayer soars cleansed with martyr 
fire, 

One choked with sinner's tears, 
In heaven both meet in one desire, 

And God one music hears. 

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out 

Upon the Sabbath air, 
Each seems a hostile faith to shout, 

A selfish form of prayer ; 
My dream is shattered, yet who knows 

But in that heaven so near 
These discords find harmonious close 

In God's atoning ear ? 

O chime of sweet Saint Chanty, 

Peal soon that Easter morn 
When Christ for all shall risen be, 

And in all hearts new-born ! 
That Pentecost when utterance clear 

To all men shall be given, 
When all shall say My Brother here, 

And hear My Son in heaven ! 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 

Who hath not been a poet? Who hath 

not, 
With life's new quiver full of winged 

years, 
Shot at a venture, and then, following 

on, 
Stood doubtful at the Parting of the 

Ways? 

There once I stood in dream, and as I 

paused, 
Looking this way and that, came forth 

to me 
The figure of a woman veiled, that said, 
" My name ic Duty, turn and follow 

me " ; 
Something there was that chilled me in 

her voice ; 

25 



I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold 
in mine, 

As if to be withdrawn, and I replied : 

" O, leave the hot wild heart within my 
breast ! 

Duty comes soon enough, too soon 
comes Death ; 

This slippery globe of life whirls of it- 
self, 

Hasting our youth away into the dark ; 

These senses, quivering with electric 
heats, 

Too soon will show, like nests on win- 
try boughs _ 

Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable 
wreck, 

Which whistling northwinds line with 
downy snow 

Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged 
rime, in vain, 

Thither the singing birds no more re- 
turn." 

Then glowed to me a maiden from the 

left, 
With bosom half disclosed, and naked 

arms 
More white and undulant than necks 

of swans ; 
And all before her steps an influence ran 
Warm as the whispering South that 

opens buds 
And swells the laggard sails of North- 
ern May. 
" I am called Pleasure, come with me ! " 

she said, 
Then laughed, and shook out sunshine 

from her hair, 
Not only that, but, so it seemed, shook 

out 
All memory too, and all the moonlit 

past, 
Old loves, old aspirations, and old 

dreams, 
More beautiful for being old and gone. 

So we two went together ; downward 

sloped 
The path through yellow meads, or so 

I dreamed, 
Yellow with sunshine and young green, 

but I 
Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one 

close joy ; 



386 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 






I only felt the hand within my own, 
Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, 
Dissolving all my brain in throbbing 
mist. 

Suddenly shrank the hand ; suddenly 
burst 

A cry that split the torpor of my brain, 

And as the first sharp thrust of light- 
ning loosens 

From the heaped cloud its rain, loos- 
ened my sense : 

" Save me ! " it thrilled ; " O, hide me ! 
there is Death ! 

Death the divider, the unmerciful, 

That digs his pitfalls under Love and 
Youth 

And covers Beauty up in the cold 
ground ; 

Horrible Death ! bringer of endless 
dark ; 

Let him not see me ! hide me in thy 
breast ! " 

Thereat 1 strove to clasp her, but my 
arms 

Met only what slipped crumbling down, 
and fell, 

A handful of gray ashes, at my feet. 

I would have fled, I would have fol- 
lowed back 

That pleasant path we came, but all 
was changed ; 

Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find ; 

Yet I toiled on, and, toiling on, I 
thought, 

" That way lies Youth, and Wisdom, 
and all Good ; 

For only by unlearning Wisdom comes 

And climbing backward to diviner 
Youth ; 

What the world teaches profits to the 
world, 

What the soul teaches profits to the 
soul, 

Which then first stands erect with God- 
ward face, 

When she lets fall her pack of withered 
facts, 

The gleanings of the outward eye and 
ear, 

And looks and listens with her finer 
sense ; 

Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh 
from without." 



After long weary days I stood again 

And waited at the Parting of the Ways ; 

Again the figure of a woman veiled 

Stood forth and beckoned, and J fol- 
lowed now : 

Down to no bower of roses led the path. 

But through the streets of towns where 
chattering Cold 

Hewed wood for fires whose glow was 
owned and fenced. 

Where Nakedness wove garments of 
warm wool 

Not for itself ; — or through the fields 
it led 

Where Hunger reaped the unattaina- 
ble grain, 

Where Idleness enforced saw idle lands, 

Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common 
earth, 

Walled round with paper against God 
and Man. 

" I cannot look," I groaned, " at only 
these ; 

The heart grows hardened with perpet- 
ual wont, * 

And palters with a feigned necessity, 

Bargaining with itself to be content ; 

Let me behold thy face." 

The Form replied : 

" Men follow Duty, never overtake ; 

Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks be- 
hind." 

But, as she spake, a loosened lock of 
hair 

Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, 
who looked 

To see it gray and thin, saw amplest 
gold ; 

Not that dull metal dug from sordid 
earth, 

But such as the retiring sunset flood 

Leaves heaped on bays and capes of 
island cloud. 

" O Guide divine," I prayed, " although 
not yet 

I may repair the virtue which I feel 

Gone out at touch of untuned things 
and foul 

With draughts of Beauty, yet declare 
how soon ! " 

" Faithless and faint of heart," the 

voice returned, 
" Thou see'st no beauty save thou make 

it first ; 



ALADDIN.— AN INVITATION. 



387 



Man, Woman, Nature, each is but a 
glass 

Where the soul sees the image of her- 
self, 

Visible echoes, offsprings of herself. 

But, since thou need'st assurance of how 
soon, 

Wait till that angel comes who opens 
all, 

The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, 

The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death." 

I waited, and methought he came ; but 
how, 

Or in what shape, I doubted, for no 
sign, 

By touch or mark, he gave me as he 
passed : 

Only I know a lily that I held 

Snapt short below the head and shriv- 
elled up ; 

Then turned my Guide and looked at 
me unveiled, 

And I beheld no face of matron stern, 

But that enchantment I had followed 
erst, 

Only more fair, more clear to eye and 
brain, 

Heightened and chastened by a house- 
hold charm ; 

She smiled, and " Which is fairer," said 
her eyes, 

" The hag's unreal Florimel or mine ? " 



ALADDIN. 

When I was a beggarly boy, 

And lived in a cellar damp, 
I had not a friend nor a toy, 

But I had Aladdin's lamp ; 
When I could not sleep for cold, 

I had fire enough in my brain, 
And builded, with roofs of gold, 

My beautiful castles in Spain ! 

Since then I have toiled day and night, 
I have money and power good store, 

But I 'd give all my lamps of silver 
bright, 
For the one that is mine no more ; 

Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, 
You gave, and may snatch again ; 



I have nothing 't would pain me to lose, 
For I own no more castles in Spain 1 



AN INVITATION. 

Nine years have slipt like hour-glass 

sand 
From life's still-emptying globe away, 
Since last, dear friend, I clasped your 

hand, 
And stood upon the impoverished land, 
Watching the steamer down the bay. 

I held the token which you gave, 
While slowly the smoke-pennon curled 
O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
And shut the distance like a grave, 
Leaving me in the colder world. 

The old worn world of hurry and heat, 
The young, fresh world of thought and 

scope, 
While you, where beckoning billows 

fleet 
Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, 
Sank wavering down the ocean-slope. 

You sought the new world in the old, 
I found the old world in the new, 
All that our human hearts can hold, 
The inward world of deathless mould, 
The same that Father Adam knew. 

He needs no ship to cross the tide; 
Who, in the lives about him, sees 
Fair window-prospects opening wide 
O'er history's fields on every side, 
To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece. 

Whatever moulds of various brain 
E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, 
Whatever empires' wax and wane, 
To him that hath not eyes in vain, 
Our village-microcosm can show. 

Come back our ancient walks to tread, 
Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, 
Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, 
Where song and smoke and laughter 

sped 
The nights to proctor-haunted ends. 



388 



AN IN VITA TION. 






Constant are all our former loves, 
Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, 
Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, 
Where floats the coot and never moves, 
Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond. 

Our old familiars are not laid, 
Though snapt our wands and sunk our 

books ; 
They beckon, not to be gainsaid, 
Where, round broad meads that mowers 

wade, 
The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks. 

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward 

blow, 
From glow to gloom the hillsides shift 
Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, 
Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, 
Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. 

There have we watched the West un- 
furl 
A cloud Byzantium newly born, 
With flickering spires and domes of 

pearl, 
And vapory surfs that crowd and curl 
Into the sunset's Golden Horn. 

There, as the flaming Occident 
Burned slowly down to ashes gray, 
Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent, 
And glimmering gold from Hesper 

sprent 
Upon the darkened river lay, 

Where a twin sky but just before 
Deepened, and double swallows 

skimmed, 
And, from a visionary shore, 
Hung visioned trees, that, more and 

more 
Grew duskas those above were dimmed. 

Then eastward saw we slowly grow 
Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, 
While great elm-masses blacken slow, 
And linden-ricks their round heads 

show 
Against a flush of widening fire. 

Doubtful at first and far away, 
The moon-flood creeps more wide and 
wide ; 



Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray, 
Curved round the east as round a bay,* 
It slips and spreads its gradual tide. 

Then suddenly, in lurid mood, 

The moon looms large o'er town and 

field 
As upon Adam, red like blood, 
'Tween him and Eden's happy wood, 
Glared the commissioned angel's shield. 

Or let us seek the seaside, there 
To wander idly as we list, 
Whether, on rocky headlands bare, 
Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear 
The trailing fringes of gray mist, 

Or whether, under skies full flown, 
The brightening surfs, with foamy din, 
Their breeze-caught forelocks back ward 

blown, 
Against the beach's yellow zone, 
Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 

And, as we watch those canvas towers 
That lean along the horizon's rim, 
"Sail on," I '11 say; "may sunniest 

hours 
Convoy you from this land of ourr, 
Since from my side you bear not him ! " 

For years thrice three, wise Horace 

said, 
A poem rare let silence bind ; 
And love may ripen in the shade, 
Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 
In deepest arches of the mind. 

Come back ! Not ours the Old World's 

good, 
The Old World's ill, thank God, not 

ours ; 
But here, far better understood, 
The days enforce our native mood, 
And challenge all our manlier powers. 

Kindlier to me the place of birth 
That first my tottering footsteps trod ; 
There may be fairer spots of earth, 
But all their glories are not worth 
The virtue of the native sod. 

Thence climbs an influence more benign 
Through pulse and nerve, through heart 
and brain ; 



AN IN VITA TION — THE NOMA DBS. 



389 



Sacred to me those fibres fine 

That first clasped earth. O, ne'er be 

mine 
The alien sun and alien rain ! 

These nourish not like homelier glows 
Or waterings of familiar skies, 
And nature fairer blooms bestows 
On the heaped hush of wintry snows, 
In pastures dear to childhood's eyes, 

Than where Italian earth receives 
The partial sunshine's ampler boons, 
Where vines carve friezes 'neath the 

eaves, 
And, in dark firmaments of leaves, 
The orange lifts its golden moons. 



THE NOMADES. 

What Nature makes in any mood 
To me is warranted for good, 
Though long before I learned to see 
She did not set us moral theses, 
And scorned to have her sweet caprices 
Strait-waistcoated in you or me. 

I, who take root and firmly cling, 
Thought fixedness the only thing ; 
Why Nature made the butterflies, 
(Those dreams of wings that float and 

hover 
At noon the slumberous poppies over,) 
Was something hidden from mine eyes, 

Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom, 
Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom, 
I saw a butterfly at rest ; 
Then first of both I felt the beauty ; 
The airy whim, the grim-set duty, 
Each from the other took its best. 

Clearer it grew than winter sky 
That Nature still had reasons why ; 
And, shifting sudden as a breeze, 
My fancy found no satisfaction, 
No antithetic sweet attraction, 
So great as in the Nomades. 

Scythians, with Nature not at strife, 
Light Arabs of our complex life, 



They build no houses, plant no mills 
To utilize Time's sliding river, 
Content that it flow waste forever, 
If they, like it, may have their wills. 

An hour they pitch their shifting tents 
In thoughts, in feelings, and events ; 
Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass, 
They sing, they dance, make love, and 

chatter, 
Vex the grim temples with their clatter, 
And make Truth's fount their looking- 
glass. 

A picnic life ; from love to love, 
From faith to faith they lightly move, 
And yet, hard-eyed philosopher, 
The flightiest maid that ever hovered 
To me your thought-webs fine discov- 
ered, 
No lens to see them through like her. 

So witchingly her finger-tips 
To Wisdom, as away she trips, 
She kisses, waves such sweet farewells 
To Duty, as she laughs " To-morrow ! " 
That both from that mad contrast bor- 
row 
A perfectness found nowhere else. 

The beach-bird on its pearly verge 
Follows and flies the whispering surge, 
While, in his tent, the rock-stayed shell 
Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations, 
And both, the flutter and the patience, 
The sauntering poet loves them well. 

Fulfil so much of God's decree 
As works its problem out in thee, 
Nor dream that in thy breast alone 
The conscience of the changeful sea- 
sons, 
The Will that in the planets reasons 
With Space-wide logic, has its throne. 

Thy virtue makes not vice of mine, 
Unlike, but none the less divine ; 
Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play; 
Nature of sameness is so chary, 
With such wild whim the freakish fairy 
Picks presents for the christening-day. 



39° 



SELF-STUDY. — PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. 



SELF-STUDY. 

A presence both by night and day, 
That made my life seem just begun, 
Yet scarce a presence, rather say 
The warning aureole of one. 

And yet I felt it everywhere ; 
Walked I the woodland's aisles along, 
It seemed to brush me with its hair ; 
Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song. 

How sweet it was ! A buttercup 
Could hold for me a day's delight, 
A bird could lift my fancy up 
To ether free from cloud or blight. 

Who was the nymph? Nay, I will see, 
Methought, and I will know her near ; 
If such, divined, her charm can be, 
Seen and possessed, how triply dear ! 

So every magic art I tried, 
And spells as numberless as sand, 
Until, one evening, by my side 
1 saw her glowing fulness stand. 

I turned to clasp her, but " Farewell," 
Parting she sighed, " we meet no more ; 
Not by my hand the curtain fell 
That leaves you conscious, wise, and 
poor. 

" Since you have found me out, I go ; 
Another lover I must find, 
Content his happiness to know, 
Nor strive its secret to unwind." 



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. 



A heap of bare and splintery crags 
Tumbled about by lightning and frost, 
With rifts and chasms and storm- 
bleached jags, 
That wait and growl for a ship to be 

lost; 
No island, but rather the skeleton 
Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten 

one, 
Where, aeons ago, with half-shut eye, 
The sluggish saurian crawled to die, 



Gasping under titanic ferns ; 
Ribs of rock that seaward jut, 
Granite shoulders and boulders and 

snags, 
Round which, though the winds in 

heaven be shut, 
The nightmared ocean murmurs and 

yearns, 
Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and 

turns, 
And the dreary black sea-weed lolls and 

wags ; 
Only rock from shore to shore, 
Only a moan through the bleak clefts 

blown, 
With sobs in the rifts where the coarse 

kelp shifts, 
Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting, 
And under all a deep, dull roar, 
Dying and swelling, forevermore, — 
Rock and moan and roar alone, 
And the dread of some nameless thing 
^ unknown, 

These make Appledore. 

These make Appledore by night t 
Then there are monsters left and right ; 
Every rock is a different monster ; 
All you have read of, fancied, dreamed, 
When you waked at night because you 

screamed, 
There they lie for half a mile, 
Jumbled together in a pile, 
And (though you know they never once 

stir), 
If you look long, they seem to be 

moving 
Just as plainly as plain can be, 
Crushing and crowding, wading and 

shoving 
Out into the awful sea, 
Where you can hear them snort and 

spout 
With pauses between, as if they were 

listening, 
Then tumult anon when the surf breaks 

glistening 
In the blackness where they wallow 

about. 

II. 
All this you would scarcely comprehend, 
Should you see the isle on a sunny day ; 
Then it is simple enough in its way, — 



PIC TURE S PR OM A PPL EDO RE. 



39* 



Two rocky bulges, one at each end, 
With a smaller bulge and a hollow be- 
tween ; 
Patches of whortleberry and bay ; 
Accidents of open green, 
Sprinkled with loose slabs square and 

g ra Y> 
Like graveyards for ages deserted ; a 

few 
Unsocial thistles ; an elder or two, 
Foamed over with blossoms white as 

spray ; 
And on the whole island never a tree 
Save a score of sumachs, high as your 

knee, 
That crouch in hollows where they may, 
(The cellars where once stood a village, 

men say,) 
Huddling for warmth, and never grew 
Tall enough for a peep at the sea ; 
A general dazzle of open blue ; 
A breeze always blowing and playing 

rat-tat 
With the bow of the ribbon round your 

hat; 
A score of sheep that do nothing but 

stare 
Up or down at you everywhere ; 
Three or four cattle that chew the cud 
Lying about in a listless despair ; 
A medrick that makes you look over- 
head 
With short, sharp scream, as he sights 

his prey, 
And, dropping straight and swift as 

lead, 
Splits the water with sudden thud ; — 
This is Appledore by day. 

A common island, you will say; 
But stay a moment : only climb 
Up to the highest rock of the isle. 
Stand there alone for a little while, 
And with gentle approaches it grows 

sublime, 
Dilating slowly as you win 
A sense from the silence to take it in. 
So wide the loneness, so lucid the air, 
The granite beneath you so savagely 

bare, 
You well might think you were looking 

down 
From some sky-silenced mountain's 

crown, 



Whose far-down pines are wont to tear 

Locks of wool from the topmost cloud. 

Only be sure you go alone, 

For Grandeur is inaccessibly proud, 

And never yet has backward thrown 

Her veil to feed the stare of a crowd ; 

To more than one was never shown 

That awful front, nor is it fit 

Thatshe, Cothurnus-shod, stand bowed 

Until the self-approving pit 

Enjoy the gust of its own wit 

In babbling plaudits cheaply loud ; 

She hides her mountains and her sea 

From the harriers of scenery, 

Who hunt down sunsets, and huddle 

and bay, 
Mouthing and mumbling the dying day. 

Trust me, 't is something to be cast 
Face to face with one's Self at last, 
To be taken out of the fuss and strife, 
The endless clatter of plate and knife, 
The bore of books and the bores of the 

street, 
From the singular mess we agree to call 

Life, 
Where that is best which the most fools 

vote is, 
And to be set down on one's own two 

feet 
So nigh to the great warm heart of 

God, 
You almost seem to feel it beat 
Down from the sunshine and up from 

the sod ; 
To be compelled, as it were, to notice 
All the beautiful changes and chances 
Through which the landscape flits and 

glances, 
And to see how the face of common 

day 
Is written all over with tender histories, 
When you study it that intenser way 
In which a lover looks at his mistress. 

Till now you dreamed not what could 

be done 
With a bit of rock and a ray of sun ; 
But look, how fade the lights and shades 
Of keen bare edge and crevice deep ! 
How doubtfully it fades and fades, 
And glows again, yon craggy steep, 
O'er which, through color's dreamiest 

grades, 



392 



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. 



The yellow sunbeams pause and creep ! 
Now pink it blooms, now glimmers 

gray, 
Now shadows to a filmy blue, 
Tries one, tries all, and will not stay, 
But flits from opal hue fo hue, 
And runs through every tenderest range 
Of change that seems not to be change, 
So rare the sweep, so nice the art, 
That lays no stress on any part, 
But shifts and lingers and persuades; 
So soft that sun-brush in the west, 
That asks no costlier pigments' aids, 
But mingling knobs, flaws, angles, 

dints, 
Indifferent of worst or best, 
Enchants the cliffs with wraiths and 

hints 
And gracious preludings of tints, 
Where all seems fixed, yet all evades, 
And indefinably pervades 
Perpetual movement with perpetual 

rest! 



Away northeast is Boone Island light ; 
You might mistake it for a ship, 
Only it stands too plumb upright. 
And like the others does not slip 
Behind the sea's unsteady brink ; 
Though, if a cloud-shade chance to dip 
Upon it a moment, 't will suddenly sink, 
Levelled and lost in the darkened main, 
Till the sun builds it suddenly up again, 
As if with a rub of Aladdin's lamp. 
On the main-land you see a misty camp 
Of mountains pitched tumultuously : 
That one looming so long and large 
Is Saddleback, and that point you see 
Over yon low and rounded marge, 
Like the boss of a sleeping giant's targe 
Laid over his breast, is Ossipee ; 
That shadow there may be Kearsarge ; 
That must be Great Haystack ; I love 

these names, 
Wherewith the lonely farmer tames 
Nature to mute companionship 
With his own mind's domestic mood, 
And strives the surly world to clip 
In the arms of familiar habitude. 
'T is well he could not contrive to make 
A Saxon of Agamenticus : 
He glowers there to the north of us, 
Wrapt in his blanket of blue haze, 



Unconvertibly savage, and scorns to 

take 

The white man's baptism or his ways. 
Him first on shore the coaster divines 
Through the early gray, and sees him 

shake 
The morning mist from his scalp-lock 

of pines ; 
Him first the skipper makes out in the 

west, 
Ere the earliest sunstreak shoots trem- 
ulous, 
Plashing with orange the palpitant lines 
Of mutable billow, crest after crest, 
And murmurs Agamenticus ! 
As if it were the name of a saint. 
But is that a mountain playing cloud, 
Or a cloud playing mountain, just there, 

so faint ? 
Look along over the low right shoulder 
Of Agamenticus into that crowd 
Of brassy thunderheads behind it ; 
Now you have caught it, but, ere you 

are older 
By half an hour, you will lose it and 

find it 
A score of times ; while you look 't is 

gone, 
And, just as you 've given it up, anon 
It is there again, till your weary eyes 
Fancy they see it waver and rise, 
With its brother clouds ; it is Agio- 

chook, 
There if you seek not, and gone if you 

look, 
Ninety miles off as the eagle flies. 

But mountains make not all the shore 
The main-land shows to Appledore ; 
Eight miles the heaving water spreads 
To a long low coast with beaches and 

heads 
That run through unimagined mazes, 
As the lights and shades and magical 

hazes 
Put them away or bring them near, 
Shimmering, sketched out for thirty 

miles 
Between two capes that waver like 

threads, 
And sink in the ocean, and reappear, 
Crumbled and melted to little isles, 
With filmy trees, that seem the mere 
Half-fancies of drowsy atmosphere ; 



. 



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. 



393 



And see the beach there, where it is 
Flat as a threshing-floor, beaten and 

packed 
With the flashing flails of weariless 

seas, 
How it lifts and looms to a precipice, 
O'er whose square front, a dream, no 

more, 
The steepened sand-stripes seem to 

pour, 
A murmurless vision of cataract ; 
You almost fancy you hear a roar, 
Fitful and faint from the distance wan- 
dering ; 
But 't is only the blind old ocean maun- 
dering, 
Raking the shingle to and fro, 
Aimlessly clutching and letting go 
The kelp-haired sedges of Appledore, 
Slipping down with a sleepy forgetting, 
And anon his ponderous shoulder set- 
ting, 
With a deep, hoarse pant against Ap- 
pledore. 

IV. 

Eastward as far as the eye can see, 
Still eastward, eastward, endlessly, 
The sparkle and tremor of purple sea 
That rises before you, a flickering hill, 
On and on to the shut of the sky, 
And beyond, you fancy it sloping until 
The same multitudinous throb and thrill 
That vibrate under your dizzy eye 
In ripples of orange and pink are sent 
Where the poppied sails doze on the 

yard, 
And the clumsy junk and proa lie 
Sunk deep with precious woods and 

nard, 
'Mid the palmy isles of the Orient. 
Those leaning towers of clouded 
white 
On the farthest brink of doubtful ocean, 
That shorten and shorten out of sight, 
Yet seem on the selfsame spot to stay, 
Receding with a motionless motion, 
Fading to dubious films of gray, 
Lost, dimly found, then vanished 

wholly, 
Will rise again, the great world under, 
First films, then towers, then high- 
heaped clouds, 



Whose nearing outlines sharpen slowy 
Into tall ships with cobweb shrouds, 
That fill long Mongol eyes with wonder, 
Crushing the violet wave to spray 
Past some low headland of Cathay ; — 
What was that sigh which seemed so 

near, 
Chilling your fancy to the core? 
'T is only the sad old sea you hear, 
That seems to seek forevermore 
Something it cannot find, and so, 
Sighing, seeks on, and tells its woe 
To the pitiless breakers of Appledore. 

V. 

How looks Appledore in a storm ? 
I have seen it when its crags seemed 

frantic, 
Butting against the mad Atlantic, 
When surge on surge would heap 
enorme, 
Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, 
That lifted and lifted, and then let go 
A great white avalanche of thunder, 

A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 
M onadnock might have trembledunder; 
And the island, whose rock-roots 

pierce below 
To where they are warmed with the 
central fire, 
You could feel its granite fibres racked, 
As it seemed to plunge with a shud- 
der and thrill 
Right at the breast of the swooping 
hill, 
And to rise again snorting a cataract 
Of rage-froth from every cranny and 
ledge, 
While the sea drew its breath in 
hoarse and deep, 
And the next vast breaker curled its 
edge, 
Gathering itself for a mightier leap. 

North, east, and south there are reefs 
and breakers 
You would never dream of in smooth 
weather, 
That toss and gore the sea for acres, 
Bellowing and gnashing and snarling 
together ; 
Look northward, where Duck Island 
lies, 



394 



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. 



And over its crown you will see arise, 
Against a background of slaty skies, 
A row of pillars still and white, 
That glimmer, and then are out of 
sight, 
As if the moon should suddenly kiss, 
While you crossed the gusty desert 
by night, 
The long colonnades of Persepolis ; 
Look southward for White Island light, 
The lantern stands ninety feet o'er 
the tide ; 
There is first a half-mile of tumult and 

fight, 
Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, 
And surging bewilderment wild and 
wide, 
Where the breakers struggle left and 
right, 
Then a mile or more of rushing sea, 
And then the light-house slim and lone ; 
And whenever the weight of ocean is 

thrown 
Full and fair on White Island head, 
A great mist-jotun you will see 
Lifting himself up silently 
High and huge o'er the light-house top, 
With hands of wavering spray out- 
spread, 
Groping after the little tower, 
That seems to shrink and shorten and 
cower, 
Till the monster's arms of a sudden 
drop, 
And silently and fruitlessly 
He sinks again into the sea. 

You, meanwhile, where drenched you 
stand, 
Awaken once more to the rush and 
roar, 
And on the rock-point tighten your 

hand, 
As you turn and see a valley deep, 

That was not there a moment before, 
Suck rattling down between you and a 
heap 
Of toppling billow, whose instant fall 
Must sink the whole island once for 
all, 
Or watch the silenter, steal thier seas 
Feeling their way to you more and 
more ; 
If they once should clutch you high as 
the knees, 



They would whirl you down like a sprig 

of kelp, 
Beyond all reach of hope or help ; — 
And such in a storm is Appledore. 



VI. 

'T is the sight of a lifetime to behold 
The great shorn sun as you see it now, 
Across eight miles of undulant gold 
That widens landward, weltered and 

rolled, 
With freaks of shadow and crimson 

stains ; 
To see the solid mountain brow 
As it notches the disk, and gains and 

gains 
Until there comes, you scarce know 

when, 
A tremble of fire o'er the parted lips 
Of cloud and mountain, which van- 
ishes — then 
From the body of day the sun-soul 

slips 
And the face of earth darkens ; but now 

the strips 
Of western vapor, straight and thin, 
From which the horizon's swervings 

win 
A grace of contrast, take fire and burn 
Like splinters of touchwood, whose 

edges a mould 
Of ashes o'erfeathers ; northward turn 
For an instant, and let your eye grow 

cold 
On Agamenticus, and when once more 
You look, 't is as if the land-breeze, 

growing. 
From the smouldering brands the film 

were blowinrr, 
And brightening them down to the very 

core ; 
Yet they momently cool and dampen 

and deaden, 
The crimson turns golden, the gold 

tu/ns leaden, 
Hardening into one black bar 
O'er which, from the hollow heaven 

afar, 
Shoots a splinter of light like diamond, 
Half seen, half fancied ; by and by 
Beyond whatever is most beyond 
In the uttermost waste of desert sky, 
Grows a star ; 
And over it, visible spirit of dew, — 



PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE. — THE WIND-HARP. 395 



Ah, stir not, speak not, hold your 

breath, 
Or surely the miracle vanisheth, — 
The new moon, tranced in unspeakable 

blue ! 
No frail illusion ; this were true, 
Rather, to call it the canoe 
Hollowed out of a single pearl, 
That floats us from the Present's whirl 
Back to those beings which were ours, 
When wishes were winged things like 

powers ! 
Call it not light, that mystery tender, 
Which broods upon the brooding ocean, 
That flush of ecstasied surrender 
To indefinable emotion, 
That glory, mellower than a mist 
Of pearl dissolved with amethyst, 
Which rims Square Rock, like what 

they paint 
Of mitigated heavenly splendor 
Round the stern forehead of a Saint ! 

No more a vision, reddened, largened, 
The moon dips toward her mountain 

nest, 
And, fringing it with palest argent, 
Slow sheathes herself behind the mar- 
gent 
Of that long cloud-bar in the West, 
Whose nether edge, erelong, you see 
The silvery chrism in turn anoint, 
And then the tiniest rosy point 
Touched doubtfully and timidly 
Into the dark blue's chilly strip, 
As some mute, wondering thing below, 
Awakened by the thrilling glow, 
Might, looking up, see Dian dip 
One lucent foot's delaying tip 
In Latmian fountains long ago. 

Knew you what silence was before? 
Here is no startle of dreaming bird 
That sings in his sleep, or strives to sing ; 
Here is no sough of branches stirred, 
Nor noise of any living thing, 
Such as one hears by night on shore ; 
Only, now and then, a sigh, 
With fickle intervals between, 
Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh, 
Such as Andromeda might have heard, 
And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen 
Turning in sleep ; it is the sea 
That welters and wavers uneasily 
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore. 



THE WIND-HARP. 

I treasure in secret some long, fine 

hair 
Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly 

golden 
I half used to fancy the sunshine there, 
So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, 
Was only caught for the moment and 

holden 
While I could say Dearest I and kiss 

it, and then 
In pity let go to the summer again. 

I twisted this magic in gossamer strings 

Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow ; 

Then called to the idle breeze that 

swings 
All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and 

sings 
'Mid the musical leaves, and said, " O, 

follow 
The will of those tears that deepen my 

words, 
And fly to my window to waken these 

chords." 

So thev trembled to life, and, doubt- 
fully 
Feeling their way to my sense, sang, 
" Say whether 

They sit all day by the greenwood tree, 

The lover and loved, as it wont to be, 
When we " but grief con- 
quered, and all together 

They swelled such weird murmur as 
haunts a shore 

Of some planet dispeopled, — " Never- 



Then from deep in the past, as seemed 

to me, 
The strings gathered sorrow and sang 

forsaken, 
" One lover still waits 'neath the green- 
wood tree, 
But 'tis dark," and they shuddered, 

" where lieth she 
Dark and cold ! Forever must one 

be taken ? " 
But I groaned, " O harp of all ruth 

bereft, 
This Scripture is sadder, — ' the other 

left'l" 



396 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN.— PALINODE. 



There murmured, as if one strove to 

speak, 
And tears came instead ; then the sad 

tones wandered 
And faltered among the uncertain 

chords 
In a troubled doubt between sorrow and 

words ; 
At last with themselves they ques- 
tioned and pondered, 
" Hereaiter ? — who knoweth ? " and so 

they sighed 
Down the long steps that lead to silence 

and died. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN ! 



The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 
And said, — " Auf wiedersehen I " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — " A uf wiedersehen I " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, — " A uf wiedersehen I " 

'T is thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too 
fain, 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, " Auf wiedersehen I " 



PALINODE. 






Still thirteen years : 't is autumn now 
On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 

The naked trees at evening sough ; 

The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " We meet again ! " 

Two watched yon oriole's pendent 
dome, 
That now is void, and dank with rain, 
And one, — O, hope more frail than 

foam ! 
The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — " We meet again ! " 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at 
pain : 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — " We meet a^ain ! " 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 
Though thou in outer dark remain ; 
One sweet sad voice ennobles death, 
And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
Softly, — Ye meet again ! " 

If earth another grave must bear, 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, 
And something whispers my despair, 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, " We meet again ! " 



AFTER THE BURIAL. 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ; 
When skies are sweet as a psalm, 
At the bows it lolls so stalwart, 
In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

And when over breakers to leeward 
The tattered surges are hurled, 
It may keep our head to the tempest, 
With its grip on the base of the world. 

But, after the shipwreck, tell me 
What help in its iron thews, 
Still true to the broken hawser, 
Deep down among sea-weed and ooze ? 



AFTER THE BURIAL. — THE DEAD HOUSE. 



397 



In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
When the helpless feet stretch out 
And find in the deeps of darkness 
No footing so solid as doubt, 

Then better one spar of Memory, 
One broken plank of the Past, 
That our human heart may cling to, 
Though hopeless of shore at last ! 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, 
To the flesh its sweet despair, 
Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket 
With its anguish of deathless hair ! 

Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
. Who doubts it of such as she ? 
But that is the pang's very secret, — 
Immortal away from me. 

There 's a narrow ridge in the grave- 
yard 
Would scarce stay a child in his race, 
But to me and my thought it is wider 
Than the star-sown vague of Space. 

Your logic, my friend, is perfect, 
Your morals most drearily true ; 
But, since the earth clashed on her 

coffin, 
I keep hearing that, and not you. 

Console if you will, I can bear it ; 
'T is a well-meant alms of breath ; 
But not all the preaching since Adam 
Has made Death other than Death. 

It is pagan ; but wait till you feel it, — 
That jar of our earth, that dull shock 
When the ploughshare of deeper pas- 
sion 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, 
But I, who am earthy and weak, 
Would give all my incomes from dream- 
land 
For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 

That little shoe in the corner, 
So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
With its emptiness confutes you, 
And argues your wisdom down. 



THE DEAD HOUSE. 

Here once my step was quickened, 
Here beckoned the opening door, 

And welcome thrilled from the threshold 
To the foot it had known before. 

A glow came forth to meet me 

From the flame that laughed in the 
grate, 

And shadows adance on the ceiling, 
Danced bother with mine for a mate. 

" I claim you, old friend," yawned the 
arm-chair, 
" This corner, you know, is j'our 
seat " ; 
" Rest your slippers on me," beamed 
the fender, 
" I brighten at touch of your feet." 

" We know the practised finger," 
Said the books, " that seems like 
brain" ; 

And the shy page rustled the secret 
It had kept till I came again. 

Sang the pillow, " My down once 
quivered 

On nightingales' throats that flew 
Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz 

To gather quaint dreams for you." 

Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's- 
ease, 

The Present plucks rue for us men ! 
I come back : that scar unhealing 

Was not in the churchyard then. 

But, I think, the house is unaltered, 

I will go and beg to look 
At the rooms that were once familiar 

To my life as its bed to a brook. 

Unaltered ! Alas for the sameness 
That makes the change but more ! 

'T is a dead man I see in the mirrors, 
'T is his tread that chills the floor ! 

To learn such a simple lesson, 
Need I go to Paris and Rome, 

That the many make the household, 
But only one the home? 



39« 



A MOOD. — THE VOYAGE TO V IN LAND. 



'T was just a womanly presence, 

An influence unexprest, 
But a rose she had worn, on my grave- 
sod 
Were more than long life with the 
rest ! 

'T was a smile, 't was a garment's 
rustle, 
'T was nothing that I can phrase, 
But the whole dumb dwelling grew 
conscious, 
And put on her looks and ways. 

Were it mine I would close the shutters, 
Like lids when the life is fled, 

And the funeral fire should wind it, 
This corpse of a home that is dead. 

For it died that autumn morning 
When she, its soul, was borne 

To lie all dark on the hillside 

That looks over woodland and corn. 



A MOOD. 

Pine in the distance, 
Patient through sun or rain, 
Meeting with graceful persistence, 
With yielding but rooted resistance, 
The northwind's wrench and strain, 
No memory of past existence 
Brings thee pain ; 
Right for the zenith heading, 
Friendly with heat or cold, 
Thine arms to the influence spreading 
Of the heavens, just from of old, 
Thou only aspirest the more, 
Unregretful the old leaves shedding 
That fringed thee with music before, 
And deeper thy roots embedding 
In the grace and the beauty of yore ; 
Thou sigh'st not, " Alas, I am older, 
The green of last summer is sear ! " 
But loftier, hopefuller, bolder, 
Wins broader horizons each year. 

To me 't is not cheer thou art singing : 

There 's a sound of the sea, 

O mournful tree, 

In thy boughs forever clinging, 

And the far-off roar 



Of waves on the shore 

A shattered vessel flinging. 

As thou musest still of the ocean 

On which thou must float at last, 

And seem'st to foreknow 

The shipwreck's woe 

And the sailor wrenched from tht 

broken mast, 
Do I, in this vague emotion, 
This sadness that will not pass, 
Though the air throbs with wings, 
And the field laughs and sings, 
Do I forebode, alas ! 
The ship-building longer and wearier, 
The voyage's struggle and strife, 
And then the darker and drearier 
Wreck of a broken life ? 



THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND. 
I. 

biorn's beckoners. 

Now Biorn, the son of Heriulf, had ill 

days 
Because the heart within him seethed 

with blood 
That would not be allayed with any 

toil, 
Whether of war or hunting or the oar, 
But was anhungered for some joy un- 
tried : 
For the brain grew not weary with the 

limbs, 
But, while they slept, still hammered 

like a Troll, 
Building all night a bridge of solid 

dream 
Between him and some purpose of his 

soul, 
Or will to find a purpose. With the 

dawn 
The sleep-laid timbers, crumbled to 

soft mist, 
Denied all foothold. But the dream 

remained, 
And every night with yellow-bearded 

kings 
His sleep was haunted, — mighty men 

of old, 



THE VOYAGE TO V INLAND. 



399 



Once young as he, now ancient like the 

gods, 
And safe as stars in all men's memories. 
Strange sagas read he in their sea-blue 

eyes 
Cold as the sea, grandly compassion- 
less ; 
Like life, they made him eager and 

then mocked. 
Nay, broad awake, they would not let 

him be ; 
They shaped themselves gigantic in the 

mist, 
They rose far-beckoning in the lamps 

of heaven. 
They whispered invitation in the winds, 
And breath came from them, mightier 

than the wind, 
To strain the lagging sails of his resolve, 
Till that grew passion which before was 

wish, 
And youth seemed all too costly to be 

staked 
On the soiled cards wherewith men 

played their game, 
Letting Time pocket up the larger life, 
Lost with base gain of raiment, food, 

and roof. 
" What helpeth lightness of the feet? " 

they said, 
" Oblivion runs with swifter foot than 

they; 
Or strength of sinew? New men come 

as strong, 
And those sleep nameless ; or renown 

in war? 
Swords grave no name on the long- 

memoried rock 
But moss shall hide it ; they alone who 

wring 
Some secret purpose from the unwilling 

gods 
Survive in song for yet a little while 
To vex, like us, the dreams of later men, 
Ourselves a dream, and dreamlike all 

we did." 

II. 

thorwald's lay. 

So Biorn went comfortless but for his 
thought, 

And by his thought the more discom- 
forted, 



Till Eric Thurlson kept his Yule-tide 

feast : 
And thither came he, called among the 

rest, 
Silent, lone-minded, a church-door to 

mirth : 
But, ere deep draughts forbade such 

serious song 
As the grave Skald might chant, nor 

after blush, 
Then Eric looked at Thorwald, where 

he sat, 
Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall, 
And said : " O Skald, sing now an 

olden song, 
Such as our fathers heard who led great 

lives ; 
And, as the bravest on a shield is borne 
Along the waving host that shouts him 

king, 
So rode their thrones upon the throng- 
ing seas ! " 
Then the old man arose ; white-haired 

he stood, 
White-bearded, and with eyes that 

looked afar 
From their still region of perpetual 

snow, 
Beyond the little smokes and stirs of 

men : 
His head was bowed with gathered 

flakes of years, 
As winter bends the sea-foreboding 

pine, _ 
But something triumphed in his brow 

and eye, 
Which whoso saw it could not see and 

crouch : 
Loud rang the emptied beakers as he 

mused, 
Brooding his eyried thoughts ; then, as 

an eagle 
Circles smooth-winged above the wind- 
vexed woods, 
So wheeled his soul into the air of song 
High o'er the stormy hall ; and thus he 

sang: 
"The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks 

out 
Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, 

straight as light ; 
And from a quiver full of such as these 
The wary bowman, matched against hii 

peers, 



400 



THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND. 



Long doubting, singles yet once more 

the best. 
Who is it needs such flawless shafts as 

Fate? 
What archer of his arrows is so choice, 
Or hits the white so surely ? They are 

men, 
The chosen of her quiver ; nor for her 
Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained 

stick 
At random from life's vulgar fagot 

plucked : 
Such answer household ends ; but she 

will have 
Souls straight and clear, of toughest 

fibre, sound 
Down to the heart of heart ; from these 

she strips 
All needless stuff, all sapwood, seasons 

them, 
From circumstance untoward feathers 

plucks 
Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with 

iron will : 
The hour that passes is her quiver-boy : 
When she draws bow, 't is not across 

the wind, 
Nor 'gainst the sun her haste-snatched 

arrow sings, 
For sun and wind have plighted faith to 

her : 
Ere men have heard the sinew twang, 

behold 
In the butt's heart her trembling mes- 
senger ! 

"The song is old and simple that I 

sing ; 
But old and simple are despised as 

cheap, 
Though hardest to achieve of human 

things : 
Good were the days of yore, when men 

were tried 
By ring of shields, as now by ring of 

words ; 
But while the gods are left, and hearts 

of men, 
And unlocked ocean, still the days are 

good. 
Still o'er the earth hastes Opportunity, 
Seeking the hardy soul that seeks for 

her. 
Be not abroad, nor deaf with household 

cares 



That chatter loudest as they mean the 

least; 
Swift-willed is thrice-willed ; late means 

nevermore ; 
Impatient is her foot, nor turns again." 

He ceased ; upon his bosom sank his 

beard 
Sadly, as one who oft had seen her pass 
Nor stayed her: and forthwith the 

frothy tide 
Of interrupted wassail roared along ; 
But Biorn, the son of Heriulf, sat apart 
Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, 
Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as 

seen. 
"A ship," he muttered, "is a winged 

bridge 
That leadeth every way to man's desire, 
And ocean the wide gate to manful 

luck" ; 
And then with that resolve his heart 

was bent, 
Which, like a humming shaft, through 

many a stripe 
Of day and night, across the unpath- 

wayed seas 
Shot the brave prow that cut on Vinland 

sands 
The first rune in the Saga of the West. 

III. 

gudrida's prophecy. 

Four weeks they sailed, a speck in sky- 
shut seas, 
Life, where was never life that knew 

itself, 
But tumbled lubber-like in blowing 

whales ; 
Thought, where the like had never been 

before 
Since Thought primeval brooded the 

abyss ; 
Alone as men were never in the world. 
They saw the icy foundlings of the sea, 
White cliffs of silence, beautiful by day, 
Or looming, sudden-perilous, at night 
In monstrous hush ; or sometimes in 

the dark 
The waves broke ominous with paly 

gleams 
Crushed by the prow in sparkles of 

cold fire. 



THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND. 



401 



Then caire green stripes of sea that 
proj/iised land 

But brought it not, and on the thirtieth 
day 

Low in the West were wooded shores 
like cloud. 

They shouted as men shout with sud- 
den hope ; 

But Biorn was silent, such strange loss 
there is 

Between the dream's fulfilment and the 
dream, 

Such sad abatement in the goal attained. 

Then Gudrida, that was a prophetess, 

Rapt with strange influence from At- 
lantis sang : 

Her words : the vision was the dream- 
ing shore's. 

Looms there the New Land : 
Locked in the shadow 
Long the gods shut it, 
Niggards of newness 
They, the o'er-old. 

Little it looks there, 
Slim as a cloud-streak ; 
It shall fold peoples 
Even as a shepherd 
Foldeth his flock. 

Silent it sleeps now ; 
Great ships shall seek it, 
Swarming as salmon ; 
Noise of its numbers 
Two seas shall hear. 

Men from the Northland, 
Men from the Southland, 
Haste empty-handed ; 
No more than manhood 
Bring they, and hands. # 

Dark hair and fair hair, 
Red blood and blue blood, 
There shall be mingled ; 
Force of the ferment 
Makes the New Man. 

Pick of all kindreds, 
King's blood shall theirs be, 
Shoots of the eldest 
Stock upon Midgard, 
Sons of the poor. 

26 



Them waits the New Land ; 
They shall subdue it, 
Leaving their sons' sons 
Space for the body, 
Space for the soul. 

Leaving their sons' sons 
All things save song-craft, 
Plant long in growing, 
Thrusting its tap-root 
Deep in the Gone. 

Here men shall grow up 
Strong from self-helping ; 
Eyes for the present 
Bring they as eagles', 
Blind to the Past. 

They shall make over 
Creed, law, and custom ; 
Driving-men, doughty 
Builders of empire, 
Builders of men. 

Here are no singers ; 
What should they sing of? 
They, the unresting? 
Labor is ugly, 
Loathsome is change. 

Those the old gods hate, 
Dwellers in dream-land, 
Drinking delusion 
Out of the empty 
Skull of the Past. 

These hate the old gods, 
Warring against them ; 
Fatal to Odin, 
Here the wolf Fenrir 
Lieth in wait. 

Here the gods' Twilight 
Gathers, earth -gulfing ; 
Blackness of battle, 
Fierce till the Old World 
Flares up in fire. 

Doubt not, my Northmen ; 
Fate loves the fearless ; 
Fools, when their roof-tree 
Falls, think it doomsday ; 
Firm stands the sky. 



402 



MA H MOOD THE IMAGE-BREAKER. 



Over the ruin 
See I the promise ; 
Crisp waves the cornfield, 
Peace-walled, the homestead 
Waits open-doored. 

There lies the New Land ; 
Yours to behold it, 
Not to possess it ; 
Slowly Fate's perfect 
Fulness shall come. 

Then from your strong loins 
Seed shall be scattered, 
Men to the marrow, 
Wilderness tamers, 
Walkers of waves. 

Jealous, the old gods 
Shut it in shadow, 
Wisely they ward it, 
Egg of the serpent, 
Bane to them all. 

Stronger and sweeter 
New gods shall seek it 
Fill it with man-folk 
Wise for the future. 
Wise from the past. 

Here all is all men's, 
Save only Wisdom ; 
King he that wins her ; 
Him hail they helmsman, 
Highest of heart. 

Might makes no master 
Here any longer ; 
Sword is not swayer ; 
Here e'en the gods are 
Selfish no more. 

Walking the New Earth, 
Lo. a divine One 
Greets all men godlike, 
Calls them his kindred, 
He, the Divine. 

Is it Thor's hammer 
Rays in his right hand ? 
Weaponless walks he ; 
It is the White Christ, 
Stronger than Thor. 



Here shall a realm rise 
Mighty in manhood ; 
Justice and Mercy 
Herevset a stronghold 
Safe without spear. 

Weak was the Old World, 
Wearily war-fenced ; 
Out of its ashes, 
Strong as the morning, 
Springeth the New. 

Beauty of promise, 
Promise of beauty, 
Safe in the silence 
Sleep thou, till cometh 
Light to thy lids ! 

Thee shall awaken 
Flame from the furnace, 
Bath of all brave ones, 
Cleanser of conscience, 
Welder of will. 

Lowly shall love thee, 
Thee, open-handed ! 
Stalwart shall shield thee, 
Thee, worth their best blood, 
Waif of the West ! 

Then shall come singers, 
Singing no swan-song, 
Birth-carols, rather, 
Meet for the man child 
Mighty of bone. 



MAHMOOD THE IMAGE- 
BREAKER. 

Old events have modern meanings ; 

only that survives 
Of past history which finds kindred in 

all hearts and lives. 

Mahmood once, the idol-breaker, 

spreader of the Faith, 
Was at Sumnat tempted sorely, as the 

legend saith. 

In the great pagoda's centre, monstrous 

and abhorred, 
Granite on a throne of granite, sat the 

temple's lord. 



INVITA MINERVA. 



4°3 



Mahmood paused a moment, silenced 

by the silent face 
That, with eyes of stone unwavering, 

awed the ancient place. 

Then the Brahmins knelt before him, 
by his doubt made bold, 

Pledging for their idol's ransom count- 
less gems and gold. 

Gold was yellow dirt to Mahmood, but 

of precious use, 
Since from it the roots of power suck 

a potent juice. 

"Were yon stone alone in question, 
this would please me well," 

Mahmood said ; " but, with the block 
there, I my truth must selL 

" Wealth and rule slip down with For- 
tune, as her wheel turns round ; 

He who keeps his faith, he only cannot 
be discrowned. 

11 Little were a change of station, loss 

of life or crowm, 
But the wreck were past retrieving if 

the Man fell down." 

So his iron mace he lifted, smote with 
might and main, 

And the idol, on the pavement tum- 
bling, burst in twain. 

Luck obeys the downright striker ; 

from the hollow core, 
Fifty times the Brahmins' offer deluged 

all the floor. 



INVITA MINERVA. 

The Bardling came where by a river 
grew 

The pennoned reeds, that, as the west- 
wind blew, 

Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if 
they knew 

What music slept enchanted in each 
stem, 

Till Pan should choose some happy one 
of them, 

And with wise lips enlife it through and 
through. 



The Bardling thought, " A pipe is all 

I need ; 
Once I have sought me out a clear, 

smooth reed, 
And shaped it to my fancy, I proceed 
To breathe such strains as, yonder 'mid 

the rocks, 
The strange youth blows, that tends 

Admetus' flocks, 
And all the maidens will to me pay 

heed." 

The summer day he spent in questful 

round, 
And many a reed he marred, but never 

found 
A conjuring- spell to free the imprisoned 

sound ; 
At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid 
Beneath a sacred laurel's flickering 

shade, 
And sleep about his brain her cobweb 

wound. 

Then strode the mighty Mother through 

his dreams, 
Saying : " The reeds along a thousand 

streams 
Are mine, and who is he that plots and 

schemes 
To snare the melodies wherewith my 

breath 
Sounds through the double pipes of Life 

and Death, 
Atoning what to men mad discord 

seems? 

" He seeks not me, but I seek oft in 

vain 
For him who shall my voiceful reeds 

constrain, 
And make them utter their melodious 

pain ; 
He flies the immortal gift, for well he 

knows 
His life of life must with its overflows 
Flood the unthan-kful pipe, nor come 

again. 

" Thou fool, who dost my harmless 

subjects wrong, 
'T is not the singer's wish that makes 

the song : 
The rhythmic beauty wanders dumb, 

how long, 



404 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 



Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument, 
Till, found its mated lips, their sweet 

consent 
Makes mortal breath than Time and 

Fate more strong." 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
I. 

*T is a woodland enchanted ! 

By no sadder spirit 

Than blackbirds and thrushes, 

That whistle to cheer it 

All day in the bushes, 

This woodland is haunted : 

And in a small clearing, 

Beyond sight or hearing 

Of human annoyance, 

The little fount gushes, 

First smoothly, then dashes 

And gurgles and flashes, 

To the maples and ashes 

Confiding its joyance ; 

Unconscious confiding, 

Then, silent and glossy, 

Slips winding and hiding 

Through alder-stems mossy, 

Through gossamer roots 

Fine as nerves, 

That tremble, as shoots 

Through their magnetized curves 

The allurement delicious 

Of the water's capricious 

Thrills, gushes, and swerves. 

II. 

*T is a woodland enchanted ! 
I am writing no fiction ; 
And this fount, its sole daughter, 
To the woodland was granted 
To pour holy water 
And win benediction ; 
In summer-noon flushes, 
When all the wood hushes, 
Blue dragon-flies knitting 
To and fro in the sun, 
With sidelong jerk flitting 
Sink down on the rushes, 
And, motionless sitting, 
Hear it bubble and run, 



Hear its low inward singing, 
With level wings swinging 
On green tasselled rushes, 
To dream in the sun. 

III. 

'T is a woodland enchanted ! 

The great August noonlight, 

Through myriad rifts slanted, 

Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles 

With flickering gold ; 

There, in warm August gloaming, 

With quick, silent brightenings, 

From meadow-lands roaming, 

The firefly twinkles 

His fitful heat-lightnings ; 

There the magical moonlight 

With meek, saintly glory 

Steeps summit and wold ; 

There whippoorwills plain in tha 

solitudes, hoary 
With lone cries that wander 
Now hither, now yonder, 
Like souls doomed of old 
To a mild purgatory ; 
But through noonlight and moonlight 
The little'fount tinkles 
Its silver saints'-bells. 
That no sprite ill-boding 
May make his abode in 
Those innocent dells. 

IV. 

'T is a woodland enchanted ! 
When the phebe scarce whistles 
Once an hour to his fellow, 
And, where red lilies flaunted, 
Balloons from the thistles 
Tell summer's disasters, 
The butterflies yellow, 
As caught in an eddy 
Of air's silent ocean, 
Sink, waver, and steady 
O'er goats'-beard and asters, 
Like souls of dead flowers, 
With aimless emotion 
Still lingering unready 
To leave their old bowers ; 
And the fount is no dumber, 
But still gleams and flashes, 
And gurgles and plashes, 
To the measure of summer ; 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 



405 



The butterflies hear it, 

And spell-bound are holden, 

Still balancing near it 

O'er the goats'-beard so golden. 

V. 

'T is a woodland enchanted ! 
A vast silver willow, 
I know not how planted, 
(This wood is enchanted, 
And full of surprises,) 
Stands stemming a billow, 
A motionless billow 
Of ankle-deep mosses ; 
Two great roots it crosses 
To make a round basin, 
And there the Fount rises ; 
Ah, too pure a mirror 
For one sick of error 
To see his sad face in ! 
No_ dew-drop is stiller 
In its lupin-leaf setting 
Than this water moss-bounded ; 
But a tiny sand-pillar 
From the bottom keeps jetting, 
And mermaid ne'er sounded 
Through the wreaths of a shell, 
Down amid crimson dulses 
In some dell of ocean, 
A melody sweeter 
Than the delicate pulses, 
The soft, noiseless metre 
The pause and the swell 
Of that musical motion : 
I recall it, not see it ; 
Could vision be clearer ? 
Half I 'm fain to draw nearer 
Half tempted to flee it ; 
The sleeping Past wake not, 
Beware ! 

One forward step take not, 
Ah ! break not 
That quietude rare ! 
By my step unaffrighted 
A thrush hops before it, 
And o'er it 

A birch hangs delighted, 
Dipping, dipping, dipping its tremu- 
lous hair ; 
Pure as the fountain, once 
I came to the place, 
(How dare I draw nearer?) 
I bent o'er its mirror, 



And saw a child's face 

'Mid locks of bright gold in it ; 

Yes, pure as this fountain once, — 

Since, how much error ! 

Too holy a mirror 

For the man to behold in it 

His harsh, bearded countenance ! 

VI. 

'T is a woodland enchanted ! 

Ah, fly unreturning ! 

Yet stay ; — 

'T is a woodland enchanted, 

Where wonderful chances 

Have sway ; 

Luck flees from the cold one 

But leaps to the bold one 

Half-way ; 

Why should I be daunted ? 

Still the smooth mirror glances, 

Still the amber sand dances, 

One look, — then away ! 

O magical glass 1 

Canst keep in thy bosom 

Shades of leaf and of blossom 

When summer days pass, 

So that when thy wave hardens 

It shapes as it pleases, 

Unharmed by the breezes, 

Its fine hanging gardens ? 

Hast those in thy keeping, 

And canst not uncover, 

Enchantedly sleeping, 

The old shade of thy lover? 

It is there ! I have found it ! 

He wakes, the long sleeper ! 

The pool is grown deeper, 

The sand dance is ending, 

The white floor sinks, blending 

With skies that below me 

Are deepening and bending, 

And a child's face alone 

That seems not to know me, 

With hair that fades golden 

In the heaven-glow round it, 

Looks up at my own ; 

Ah, glimpse through the portal 

That leads to the throne, 

That opes the child's olden 

Regions Elysian ! 

Ah, too holy vision 

For thy skirts to be holden 

By soiled hand of mortal I 



406 



YUSSOUF. 



It wavers, it scatters, 
'T is gone past recalling ! 
A tear's sudden falling 
The magic cup shatters, 
Breaks the spell of the waters, 
And the sand cone once more, 
With a ceaseless renewing, 
Its dance is pursuing 
On the silvery floor, 
O'er and o'er, 

With a noiseless and ceaseless renew- 
ing. 



VII. 

'T is a woodland enchanted ! 

If you ask me, Where is it ? 

I only can answer, 

'T is past my disclosing ; 

Not to choice is it granted 

By sure paths to visit 

The still pool enclosing 

Its blithe little dancer ; 

But in some day, the rarest 

Of many Septembers, 

When the pulses of air rest, 

And all things lie dreaming 

In drowsy haze steaming 

From the wood's glowing embers, 

Then, sometimes, unheeding, 

And asking not whither, 

By a sweet inward leading 

My feet are drawn thither, 

And, looking with awe in the magical 

mirror, 
I see through my tears, 
Half doubtful of seeing, 
The face unperverted, 
The warm golden being 
Of a child of five years ; 
And spite of the mists and the error, 
And the days overcast, 
Can feel that I walk undeserted, 
But forever attended 
By the glad heavens that bended 
O'er the innocent past ; 
Toward fancy or truth 
Doth the sweet vision win me ? 
Dare I think that I cast 
In the fountain of youth 
The fleeting reflection 
Of some bygone perfection 
That still lingers in me ? 



YUSSOUF. 

A stranger came one night to Yus- 

souf's tent, 
Saying, " Behold one outcast and in 

dread, 
Against whose life the bow of power is 

bent, 
Who flies, and hath not where to lay 

his head ; 
I come to thee for shelter and for food, 
To Yussouf, called through all our tribes 

"The Good." 

" This tent is mine," said Yussouf, 

"but no more 
Than it is God's ; come in, and be at 

peace ; 
Freely shalt thou partake of all my store 
As I of His who buildeth over these 
Our tents his glorious roof of night and 

day, 
And at whose door none ever yet heard 

Nay." 

So Yussouf entertained his guest that 

night, 
And, waking him ere day, said: "Here 

is gold, 
My swiftest horse is saddled for thy 

flight, 
Depart before the prying day grow 

bold." m 
As one lamp lights another, nor grows 

less, 
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. 

That inward light the stranger's face 

made grand, 
Which shines from all self-conquest ; 

kneeling low, 
He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf s 

hand, 
Sobbing : " O Sheik, I cannot leave 

thee so ; 
I will repay thee ; all this thou hast 

done 
Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son ! " 

" Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, 

" for with thee 
Into the desert, never to return, 
My one black thought shall ride away 

from me ; 



THE DARKENED MIND. —WHA T RABBI J EH OS HA SAID. 407 



First-born, for whom by day and night 
I yearn, 

Balanced and just are all of God's de- 
crees ; 

Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep 
in peace ! " 



THE DARKENED MIND. 

The fire is burning clear and blithely, 
Pleasantly whistles the winter wind ; 
We are about thee, thy friends and 

kindred, 
On us all flickers the firelight kind ; 
There thou sittest in thy wonted corner 
Lone and awful in thy darkened mind. 

There thou sittest ; now and then thou 

moanest ; 
Thou dost talk with what we cannot see, 
Lookest at us with an eye so doubtful, 
It doth put us very far from thee ; 
There thou sittest ; we would fain be 

nigh thee, 
But we know that it can never be. 

We can touch thee, still we are no 

nearer ; 
Gather round thee, still thou art alone ; 
The wide chasm of reason is between us ; 
/hou confutest kindness with a moan ; 
Wq can speak to thee, and thou canst 

answer, 
Like two prisoners through a wall of 

stone. 
Hardest heart would call it very awful 
When thou look'st at us and seest — O 

what ? 
If we move away, thou sittest gazing 
With those vague eyes at the selfsame 

spot, 
And thou mutterest, thy hands thou 

wringest, 
Seeing something, — us thou seest not. 

Strange it is that, in this open bright- 
ness, 

Thou shouldst sit in such a narrow cell ; 

Strange it is that thou shouldst be so 
lonesome 

Where those are who love thee all so 
well ; 

Not so much of thee is left among us 

As the hum outliving the hushed bell. 



WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID. 

Rabbi Jehosha used to say 
That God made angels every day, 
Perfect as Michael and the rest 
First brooded in creation's nest, 
Whose only office was to cry 
Hosanna I once, and then to die ; 
Or rather, with Life's essence blent, 
To be led home from banishment. 

Rabbi Jehosha had the skill 

To know that Heaven is in God's will ; 

And doing that, though for a space 

One heart-beat long, may win a grace 

As full of grandeur and of glow 

As Princes of the Chariot know. 

'T were glorious, no doubt, to be 
One of the strong-winged Hierarchy, 
To burn with Seraphs, or to shine 
With Cherubs, deathlessly divine ; 
Yet I, perhaps, poor earthly clod, 
Could 1 forget myself in God, 
Could I but find my nature's clew 
Simply as birds and blossoms do, 
And but for one rapt moment know 
'T is Heaven must come, not we must 

go, 
Should win my place as near the throne 
As the pearl-angel of its zone, 
And God would listen 'mid the throng 
For my one breath of perfect song, 
That, in its simple human way, 
Said all the Host of Heaven could say. 



ALL-SAINTS. 

One feast, of holy days the crest, 
I, though no Churchman, love to 
keep, 
All-Saints, — the unknown good that 
rest 
In God's still memory folded deep ; 
The bravely dumb that did their deed, 
And scorned to blot it with a name, 
Men of the plain heroic breed, 
That loved Heaven's silence more 
than fame. 

Such lived not in the past alone, 
But thread to-day the unheeding 
street, 



A WINTER-EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRS, 



And stairs to Sin and Famine known 
Sing with the welcome of their feet ; 

The den they enter grows a shrine, 
The grimy sash an oriel burns, 

Their cup of water warms like wine, 
Their speech is filled from heavenly 
urns. 

About their brows to me appears 

An aureole traced in tenderest light, 
The rainbow-gleam of smiles through 
tears 

In dying eyes, by them made bright, 
Of souls that shivered on the edge 

Of that chill ford repassed no more, 
And in their mercy felt the pledge 

And sweetness of the farther shore. 



A WINTER-EVENING HYMN 
TO MY FIRE. 



Beauty on my hearth-stone blazing ! 
To-night the triple Zoroaster 
Shall my prophet be and master : 
To-night will I pure Magian be, 
Hymns to thy sole honor raising, 
While thou leapest fast and faster, 
Wild with self-delighted glee. 
Or sink'st low and glowest faintly 
As an aureole still and saintly, 
Keeping cadence to my praising 
Thee ! still thee ! and only thee ! 



Elfish daughter of Apollo ! 

Thee, from thy father stolen and bound 

To serve in Vulcan's clangorous smithy 

Prometheus (primal Yankee) found, 

And, when he had tampered with thee, 

(Too confiding little maid !) 

In a reed's precarious hollow 

To our frozen earth conveyed : 

For he swore I know not what ; 

Endless ease should be thy lot, 

Pleasure that should never falter, 

Life-long play, and not a duty 

Save to hover o'er the altar, 

Vision of celestial beauty, 

Fed with precious woods and spices, 

Then, perfidious ! having got 

Thee in the net of his devices, 



Sold thee into endless slavory, 
Made thee a drudge to boil the pot, 
Thee, Helios' daughter, wHo dost bear 
His likeness in thy golden hair ; 
Thee, by nature wild and w«» very- 
Palpitating, evanescent 
As the shade of Dian's crescent 
Life, motion, gladness, everywhere ! 



Fathom deep men bury thee 
In the furnace dark and still, 
There, with dreariest mockery, 
Making thee eat, against thy -^'xW- 
Blackest Pennsylvanian stone ; 
But thou dost avenge thy doom, 
For, from out thy catacomb, 
Day and night thy wrath is blox*"* 
In a withering simoom, 
And, adown that cavern drear, 
Thy black pitfall in the floor, 
Staggers the lusty antique cheer, 
Despairing, and is seen no more/ 



Elfish I may rightly name thee ; ■ 
We enslave, but cannot tame thee ; 
With fierce snatches, now and then, 
Thou pluckest at thy right again, 
And thy down-trod instincts savage 
To stealthy insurrection creep, 
While thy wittol masters sleep, 
And burst in undiscerning ravage ; 
Then how thou shak'st thy bacchant 

locks ! 
While brazen pulses, far and near, 
Throb thick and thicker wild with feaf 
And dread conjecture, till the drear 
Disordered clangor every steeple rocks ! 



But when we make a friend of thee, 
And admit thee to the hall 
On our nights of festival, 
Then, Cinderella, who could see 
In thee the kitchen's stunted thrall? 
Once more a Princess lithe and tall, 
Thou dancest with a whispering tread, 
While the bright marvel of thy head 
In crinkling gold floats all abroad, 
And gloriously dost vindicate 
The legend of thy lineage great, 
Earth-exiled daughter of the Pythian 
god! - 



A WINTER-EVENING HYMN* TO MY FIRE. 



409 



Now in the ample chimney-place, 
To honor thy acknowledged race, 
We crown thee high with laurel good, 
Thy shining father's sacred wood, 
Which, guessing thy ancestral right, 
Sparkles and snaps his dumb delight, 
And, at thy touch, poor outcast one, 
Feels through his gladdened fibres go 
The tingle and thrill and vassal glow 
Of instincts loyal to the sun. 



O thou of home the guardian Lar, 
And, when our earth hath wandered far 
Into the cold, and deep snow covers 
The walks of our New England lovers, 
Their sweet secluded evening-star ! 
*T was with thy rays the English Muse 
Ripened her mild domestic hues ; 
*T was by thy flicker that she conned 
The fireside wisdom that enrings 
With light from heaven familiar things ; 
By thee she found the homely faith 
In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, 
When Death, extinguishing his torch, 
Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ; 
The love that wanders not beyond 
His earliest nest, but sits and sings 
While children smooth his patient 

wings ; 
Therefore with thee I love to read 
Our brave old poets : at thy touch how 

stirs 
Life in the withered words ! how swift 

recede 
Time's shadows ! and how glows again 
Through its dead mass the incandes- 
cent verse, 
As when upon the anvils of the brain 
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought 
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the 

poet's thought ! 
Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, 
The aspirations unattained, 
The rhythms so rathe and delicate, 
They bent and strained 
And broke, beneath the sombre weight 
Of any airiest mortal word. 



What warm protection dost thou bend 
Round curtained talk of friend with 
friend, 



While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, 
To softest outline rounds the roof, 
Or the rude North with baffled strain 
Shoulders the frost-starred window- 
pane ! 
Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne 
By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems 
Gifted upon her natal morn 
By him with fire, by her with dreams, 
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse 
Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, 
We worship, un forbid of thee ; 
And, as her incense floats and curls 
In airy spires and wayward whirls, 
Or poises on its tremulous stalk 
A flower of frailest revery, 
So winds and loiters, idly free, 
The current of unguided talk, 
Now laughter-rippled, and now caught 
In smooth, dark pools of deeper 

thought. 
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, 
A sweetly unobtrusive third ; 
For thou hast magic beyond wine, 
To unlock natures each to each ; 
The unspoken thought thou canst di- 
vine ; 
Thou fillest the pauses of the speech 
With whispers that to dream-land reach, 
And frozen fancy-springs unchain 
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; 
Sun of all inmost confidences ! 
To thy rays doth the heart unclose 
Its formal calyx of pretences, 
That close against rude day's offences, 
And open its shy midnight rose. 



Thou holdest not the master key 
With which thy Sire sets free the mys* 

tic gates 
Of Past and Future : not for common 

fates 
Do they wide open fling, 
And, with a far-heard ring, 
Swing back their willing valves melo' 

diously ; 
Only to ceremonial days, 
And great processions of imperial song 
That set the world at gaze, 
Doth such high privilege belong : 
But thou a postern-door canst ope 
To humbler chambers of the selfsame* 

palace 



4io 



FANCY'S CASUISTRY. 



Where Memory lodges, and her sister 

Hope, 
Whose being is but as a crystal chalice 
Which, with her various mood, the 

elder fills 
Of joy or sorrow, 
So coloring as she wills 
With hues of yesterday the unconscious 

morrow. 



Thou sinkest, and my fancy sinks with 

thee : 
For thee I took the idle shell, 
And struck the unused chords again, 
But they are gone who listened well ; 
Some are in heaven, and all are far 

from me : 
Even as 1 sing, it turns to pain, 
And with vain tears my eyelids throb 

and swell : 
Enough ; I come not of the race 
That hawk their sorrows in the market- 
place. 
Earth stops the ears I best had loved 

to please ; 
Then break, ye untuned chords, or rust 

in peace ! 
As if a white-haired actor should come 

back 
Some midnight to the theatre void and 

black, 
And there rehearse his youth's great 

part 
'Mid thin applauses of the ghosts, 
So seems it now : ye crowd upon my 

heart, 
And I bow down in silence, shadowy 

hosts ! 



FANCY'S CASUISTRY. 

How struggles with the tempest's 

swells 
That warning of tumultuous bells ! 
The fire is loose ! and frantic knells 

Throb fast and faster, 
As tower to tower confusedly tells 

News of disaster. 

But on my far-off solitude 
No harsh alarums can intrude ; 



The terror comes to me subdued 
And charmed by distance, 

To deepen the habitual mood 
Of my existence. 

Are those, I muse, the Easter chimes? 
And listen, weaving careless rhymes 
While the loud city's griefs and crimes 

Pay gentle allegiance 
To the fine quiet that sublimes 

These dreamy regions. 

And when the storm o'erwhelms the 

shore, 
I watch entranced as, o'er and o'er, 
The light revolves amid the roar 

So still and saintly, 
Now large and near, now more and 
more 
Withdrawing faintly. 

This, too, despairing sailors see 
Flash out the breakers 'neath their lee 
In sudden snow, then lingeringly 

Wane tow'rd eclipse, 
While through the dark the shuddering 
sea 

Gropes for the ships. 

And is it right, this mood of mind 
That thus, in revery enshrined, 
Can in the world mere topics find 

For musing stricture, 
Seeing the life of humankind 

Only as picture? 

The events in line of battle go ; 
In vain for me their trumpets blow 
As unto him that lieth low 

In death's dark arches, 
And through the sod hears throbbing 
slow 

The muffled marches. 

O Duty, am I dead to thee 
In this my cloistered ecstasy, 
In this lone shallop on the sea 

That drifts tow'rd Silence ? 
And are those visioned shores I see 

But sirens' islands? 

My Dante frowns with lip-locked mien, 
As who would say, '* 'T is those, I ween, 
Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean 
That win the laurel " ; 



TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT.^ODE TO HAPPINESS. 411 



But where is Truth? What does it 
mean, 
The world-old quarrel ? 

Such questionings are idle air : 
Leave what to do and what to spare 
To the inspiring moment's care, 

Nor ask for payment 
Of fame or gold, but just to wear 

Unspotted raiment. 



TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT, 

WHO HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND 
TROUT. 

Fit for an Abbot of Theleme, 

For the whole Cardinals' College, 
or 
The Pope himself to see in dream 
Before his lenten vision gleam, 
He lies there, the sogdologer ! 

His precious flanks with stars besprent, 

Worthy to swim in Castaly ! 
The friend by whom such gifts are sent, 
For him shall bumpers full be spent, 
His health ! be Luck his fast ally ! 

I see him trace the wayward brook 

Amid the forest mysteries. 
Where at their shades shy aspens look, 
Or where, with many a gurgling crook, 
It croons its woodland histories. 

I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend 

Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude 
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling 

bend, 

(O, stew him, Ann, as 't were your 
friend, 
With amorous solicitude !) 

I see him step with caution due, 

Soft as if shod with moccasins, 
Grave as in church, for who plies you, 
Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew 

From all our common stock o' sins. 

The unerring fly I see him cast, 
That as a rose-leaf falls as soft, 

A flash ! a whirl ! he has him fast ! 

We tyros, how that struggle last 
Confuses and appalls us oft. 



Unfluttered he : calm as the sky 
Looks on our tragi-comedies, 
This way and that he lets him fly, 
A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die 

Lands him, with cool aplomb^ at 
ease. 

The friend who gave our board such 
gust, 
Life's care may he o'erstep it half, 
And, when Death hooks him, as he 

must. 
He '11 do it handsomely, I trust, 

And John H ■ write his epi- 
taph ! 

O, born beneath the Fishes' sign, 

Of constellations happiest, 
May he somewhere with Walton dine, 
May Horace send him Massic wine, 
And Burns Scotch drink, the nap- 
piest ! 

And when they come his deeds to 
weigh, 
And how he used the talents his, 
One trout-scale in the scales he '11 lay 
(If trout had scales), and 't will out- 
sway 
The wrong side of the balances. 



ODE TO HAPPINESS. 

Spirit, that rarely comest now 
And only to contrast my gloom, 
Like rainbow-feathered birds that 
bloom 
A moment on some autumn bough 
That, with the spurn of their farewell, 
Sheds its last leaves, — thou once didst 
dwell 
With me year-long, and make in- 
tense 
To boyhood's wisely vacant days 
Their fleet but all-sufficing grace 
Of trustful inexperience. 
While soul could still transfigure 
sense, 
And thrill, as with love's first caress, 
At life's mere unexpectedness. 

Days when my blood would leap and 



41* 



ODE TO HAPPINESS. 



As full of sunshine as a breeze, 
Or spray tossed up by Summer 
seas 
That doubts if it be sea or sun ! 
Days that flew swiftly like the band 
That played in Grecian games at 
strife, 
And passed from eager hand to hand 
The onward-dancing torch of life ! 

Wing-footed ! thou abid'st with him 
Who asks it not ; but he who hath 
Watched o'er the waves thy waning 
path, 
Shall nevermore behold returning 
Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward 

yearning ! 
Thou first reveal'st to us thy face 
Turned o'er the shoulder's parting 
grace, 
A moment glimpsed, then seen no 
more, — 
Thou whose swift footsteps we can 
trace 
Away from every mortal door. 

Nymph of the unreturning feet, 

How may I win thee back? But 

no, 
I do thee wrong to call thee so ; 
'T is I am changed, not thou art fleet : 
The man thy presence feels again, 
Not in the blood, but in the brain, 
Spirit, that lov'st the upper air 
Serene and passionless and rare, 

Such as on mountain heights we 

find 
And wide-viewed uplands of the 
mind ; 
Or such as scorns to coil and sing 
Round any but the eagle's wing 

Of souls that with long upward beat 
Have won an undisturbed retreat 
Where, poised like winged victories, 
They mirror in relentless eyes 

The life broad-basking 'neath their 
feet, — 
Man ever with his Now at strife, 
Pained with first gasps of earthly 

air, 
Then praying Death the last to 
spare, 
Still fearful of the ampler life. 



Not unto them dost thou consent 

Who, passionless, can lead at ease 
A life of unalloyed content 

A life like that of land-locked seas, 
That feel no elemental gush • 
Of tidal forces, no fierce rush 

Of storm deep-grasping scarcely 
spent 

'Twixt continent and continent. 
Such quiet souls have never known 

Thy truer inspiration, thou 

Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow 
Spray from the plunging vessel thrown 

Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff 
That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its 
breath, 

Where the frail hair-breadth of an if 
Is all that sunders life and death : 
These, too, are cared-for, and round 

these 
Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace ; 

These in unvexed dependence lie, 

Each 'neath his strip of household 
sky ; 
O'er these clouds wander, and the blue 
Hangs motionless the whole day 
through ; 

Stars rise for them, and moons grow 
large 
And lessen in such tranquil wise 
As joys and sorrows do that rise 

Within their nature's sheltered 
marge ; 
Their hours into each other flit 

Like the leaf-shadows of the vine 
And fig-tree under which they sit, 

And their still lives to heaven incline 
With an unconscious habitude, 

Unhistoried as smokes that rise 
From happy hearths and sight elude 

In kindred blue of morning skies. 

Wayward ! when once we feel thy lack, 
'T is worse than vain to woo thee back ! 

Yet there is one who seems to be 
Thine elder sister, in whose eyes 
A faint far northern light will rise 

Sometimes, and bring a dream of 
thee ; 
She is not that for which youth hoped, 

But she hath blessings all her own.. 
Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped, 

And faith to sorrow given alone f 
Almost I deem that it is thou 



VILLA FRANCA. 



4i3 



Come back with graver matron brow, 
With deepened eyes and batedbreath, 
Like one that somewhere hath met 
Death, 
But "No," she answers, " I am she 
Whom the gods love, Tranquillity : 
That other whom you seek forlorn 
Half earthly was ; but I am born 
Of the immortals, and our race 
Wear still some sadness on our face : 

He wins me late, but keeps me long, 
Who, dowered with every gift of pas- 
sion, 
In that fierce flame can forge and fash- 
ion 
Of sin and self the anchor strong ; 
Can thence compel the driving force 
Of daily life's mechanic course, 
Nor less the nobler energies < 
Of needful toil and culture wise ; 
Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure 
Who can renounce, and yet endure, 
To him I come, not lightly wooed, 
But won by silent fortitude." 



VILLA FRANCA. 

1859. 

Wait a little : do we not wait? 
Louis Napoleon is not Fate, 
Francis Joseph is not Time ; 
There 's~ One hath swifter feet than 

Crime ; 
Cannon-parliaments settle naught ; 
Venice is Austria's, — whose is 

Thought ? 
Minie is good, but, spite of change, 
Gutenberg's gun has the longest range. 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

In the shadow, year out, year in, 

The silent headsman waits forever. 

Wait, we say : our years are long ; 
Men are weak, but Man is strong ; 
Since the stars first curved their rings, 
We have looked on many things ; 
Great wars come and great wars go, 
Wolf-tracks light on polar snow ; 
We shall see him come and gone, 



This second-hand Napoleon. 
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 
Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 

sever ! 
In the shadow, year out, year in, 
Tne silent headsman waits forever. 

We saw the elder Corsican, 
And Clotho muttered as she span, 
While crowned lackeys bore the train, 
Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne : 
" Sister, stint not length of thread ! 
Sister, stay the scissors dread ! 
On Saint Helen's granite bleak, 
Hark, the vulture whets his beak ! " 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

In the shadow, year out, year in, 

The silent headsman waits forever. 

The Bonapartes, we know their bees 
That wade in honey red to the knees ; 
Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep 

sound 
In dreamless garners underground : 
We know false glory's spendthrift race 
Pawning nations for feathers and lace ; 
It may be short, it may be long, 
" 'T is reckoning-day ! " sneers unpaid 
Wrong. 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

In the shadow, year out, year in, 

The silent headsman waits forever. 

The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin 
Can promise what he ne'er could win ; 
Slavery reaped for fine words sown, 
System for all, and rights for none, 
Despots atop, a wild clan below, 
Such is the Gaul from long ago ; 
Wash the black from the Ethiop's 

face, 
Wash the past out of man or race ! 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

In the shadow, year out, year in, 

The silent headsman waits forever. 

'Neath Gregory's throne a spider 

swings, 
And snares the people for the kings ; 



414 



THE MINER. — GOLD EGG. 



"Luther is dead ; old quarrels pass ; 
The stake's black scars are healed with 

grass"; 
So dreamers prate ; did man e'er live 
Saw priest or woman yet forgive ? 
But Luther's broom is left, and eyes 
Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies. 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

In the shadow, year out, year in, 

The silent headsman waits forever. 

Smooth sails the ship of either realm, 
Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm ; 
We look down the depths, and mark 
Silent workers in the dark 
Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, 
Old instincts hardening to new beliefs ; 
Patience a little ; learn to wait ; 
Hours are long on the clock of Fate. 

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! 

Lachesis, twist ! and Atropos, 
sever ! 

Darkness is strong, and so is Sin, 

But only God endures forever ! 



THE MINER. 

Down 'mid the tangled roots of things 
That coil about the central fire, 

I seek for that which giveth wings 
To stoop, not soar, to my desire. 

Sometimes I hear, as 't were a sigh, 
The sea's deep yearning far above, 

" Thou hast the secret not," I cry, 
" In deeper deeps is hid my Love." 

They think I burrow from the sun, 
In darkness, all alone, and weak ; 

Such loss were gain if He were won, 
For 't is the sun's own Sun I seek. 

"The earth," they murmur, "is the 
tomb 

That vainly sought his life to prison ; 
Whv grovel longer in the gloom ? 

He is not here ; he hath arisen." 

More life for me where he hath lain 
Hidden while ye believed him dead, 



Than in cathedrals cold and vain, 
Built ou loose sands of It is said. 

My search is for the living gold ; 

Him I desire who dwells recluse, 
And not his image worn and old, 

Day-servant of our sordid use.' 

If him I find not, yet I find 

The ancient joy of cell and church, 

Ihe glimpse, the surety undefined, 
The unquenched ardor of the search. 

Happier to chase a flying goal 
Than to sit counting laurelled gains, 

To guess the Soul within the soul 
Than to be lord of what remains. 

Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise, 
Beyond my nature's utmost scope ; 

Be ever absent from mine eyes 
To be twice present in my hope ! 



GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FAN- 
TASY. 

HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE 
BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRES- 
DEN OVER HERR PROFESSOR DOCTOR 
vischer's WISSENSCHAFT DES scho- 
NEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF. 

I swam with undulation soft, 

Adrift on Vischer's ocean, 
And, from my cockboat up aloft, 
Sent down my mental plummet oft 

In hope to reach a notion. 

But from the metaphysic sea 
No bottom was forthcoming, 

And all the while (how drearily !) 

In one eternal note of B 
My German stove kept humming. 

"What 's Beauty?" mused I; "is i 
told 

By synthesis? analysis? 
Have you not made us lead of gold ? 
To feed your crucible, not sold 

Our temple's sacred chalices ? " 



GOLD EGG. 



415 



Then o'er my senses came a change ; 

My book seemed all traditions, 
Old legends of profoundest range, 
Diablery, and stories strange 

Of goblins, elves, magicians. 

Old gods in modern saints I found, 
Old creeds in strange disguises ; 
I thought them safely underground, 
And here they were, all safe and sound, 
Without a sign of phthisis. 

Truth was, my outward eyes were 
closed, 

Although I did not know it ; 
Deep into dream-land I had dozed, 
And so was happily transposed 

From proser into poet. 

So what I read took flesh and blood, 

And turned to living creatures : 
The words were but the dingy bud 
That bloomed, like Adam, from the 
mud, 
To human forms and features. 

I saw how Zeus was lodged once more 

By Baucis and Philemon ; 
The text said, " Not alone of yore, 
But every day, at every door, 

Knocks still the masking Demon." 

Daimon 't was printed in the book, 

And, as I read it slowly, 
The letters stirred and changed, and 

took 
Jove's stature, the Olympian look 

Of painless melancholy. 

He paused upon the threshold worn : 
" With coin I cannot pay you ; 

Yet would I fain make some return ; 

The gift for cheapness do not spurn, 
Accept this hen, I pray you. 

" Plain feathers wears my Hemera, 

And has from ages olden ; 
She makes her nest in common hay, 
And yet, of all the birds that lay, 

Her eggs alone are golden." 

He turned, and could no more be seen ; 

Old Baucis stared a moment, 
Then tossed poor Partlet on the green, 
And with a tone, half jest, half spleen, 

Thus made her housewife's comment : 



" The stranger had a queerish face, 

His smile was hardly pleasant, 
And, though he meant it for a grace, 
Yet this old hen of barnyard race 
Was but a stingy present. 

" She 's quite too old for laying eggs, 

Nay, even to make a soup of ; 
One only needs to see her legs, — 
You might as well boil down the pegs 
I made the brood-hen's coop of! 

" Some eighteen score of such do I 

Raise every year, her sisters ; 
Go, in the woods your fo'rtunes try, 
All day for one poor earthworm pry, 
And scratch your toes to blisters ! " 

Philemon found the rede was good, 
And, turning on the poor hen, 

He clapt his hands, and stamped, and 
shooed, 

Hunting the exile tow'rd the wood, 
To house with snipe and moor-hen. 

A poet saw and cried : " Hold ! hold ! 

What are you doing, madman ? 
Spurn you more wealth than can be told, 
The fowl that lays the eggs of gold, 

Because she 's plainly clad, man ? " 

To him Philemon : " I '11 not balk 
Thy will with any shackle ; 

Wilt add a burden to thy walk ? 

There ! take her without further talk; 
You 're both but fit to cackle ! " 

But scarce the poet touched the bird, 

It swelled to stature regal ; 
And when her cloud-wide wings she 

stirred, 
A whisper as of doom was heard, 

'T was Jove's bolt-bearing eagle. 

As when from far-off cloud-bergs 
springs 

A crag, and, hurtling under, 
From cliff to cliff the rumor flings, 
So she from flight-foreboding wings 

Shook out a murmurous thunder. 

She gripped the poet to her breast. 

And, ever upward soaring, 
Earth seemed a new moon in the west. 



416 



A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



And then one light among the rest 
Where squadrons lie at mooring. 

How tell to what heaven-hallowed seat 

The eagie bent his courses ? 
The waves that on its bases beat. 
The gales that round it weave and fleet, 
Are life's creative forces. 

Here was the bird's primeval nest, 

High on a promontory 
Star-pharosed, where she takes her rest 
To brood new aeons 'neath her breast, 

The future's unfledged glory. 

I know not how, but I was there 

All feeling, hearing, seeing ; 
It was not wind that stirred my hair 
But living breath, the essence rare 
Of unembodied being. 

And in the nest an egg of gold 

Lay soft in self-made lustre ; 

Gazing whereon, what depths untold 

Within, what marvels manifold, 

Seemed silently to muster 1 

Daily such splendors to confront 

Is still to me and you sent? 
It glowed as when Saint Peter's front, 
Illumed, forgets its stony wont, 

And seems to throb translucent. 

One saw therein the life of man, 

(Or so the poet found it,) 
The yolk and white, conceive who can, 
Were the glad earth, that, floating, span 

In the glad heaven around it. 

I knew this as one knows in dream, 

Where no effects to causes 
• Are chained as in our work-day scheme, 
And then was wakened by a scream 

That seemed to come from Baucis. 

" Bless Zeus ! " she cried, " I 'm safe 
below ! " 

First pale, then red as coral ; 
And I, still drowsy, pondered slow, 
And seemed to find, but hardly know, 

Something like this for moral. 

Each day the world is born anew 
For him who takes it rightly ; 



Not fresher that which Adam knew, 
Not sweeter that whose moonlit dew 
Entranced Arcadia nightly. 

Rightly? That 's simply : 't is to see 

Some substance casts these shadows 
Which we call Life and History, 
That aimless seem to chase and flee 
Like wind-gleams over meadows. 

Simply ? That 's nobly : 't is to know 

That God may still be met with, 
Nor groweth old, nor doth bestow 
These senses fine, this brain aglow, 
To grovel and forget with. 

Beauty, Herr Doctor, trust in me, 
No chemistry will win you ; 

Charis still rises from the sea ; 

If you can't find her, might it be 
Because you seek within you? 



A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A 
FRIEND. 

Alike I hate to be your debtor, 

Or write a mere perfunctory letter ; 

For letters, so it seems to me, 

Our careless quintessence should be, 

Our real nature's truant play 

When Consciousness looks t* other 

way, 
Not drop by drop, with watchful skill, 
Gathered in Art's deliberate still, 
But life's insensible completeness 
Got as the ripe grape gets its sweet- 
ness, 
As if it had a way to fuse 
The golden sunlight into juice. 
Hopeless my mental pump I try ; 
The boxes hiss, the tube is dry; 
As those petroleum wells that spout 
Awhile like M. C.'s then give out, 
My spring, once full as Arethusa, 
Is a mere bore as dry 's Creusa ; 
And yet you ask me why I 'm glum, 
And why my graver Muse is dumb. 
Ah me ! I 've reasons manifold 
Condensed in one, — I'm getting old ! 

When life, once past its fortieth year, 
Wheels up its evening hemisphere, 



A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



417 



The mind's own shadow, which the 
boy 

Saw onward point to hope and joy, 

Shifts round, irrevocably set 

Tow'rd morning's loss and vain re- 
gret, 

And, argue with it as we will, 

The clock is unconverted still. 

" But count the gains," I hear you 
say, 

" Which far the seeming loss out- 
weigh ; 

Friendships built firm 'gainst flood and 
wind 

On rock-foundations of the mind ; 

Knowledge instead of scheming hope ; 

For wild adventure, settled scope ; 

Talents, from surface-ore profuse, 

Tempered and edged to tools for use ; 

Judgment, for passion's headlong 
whirls ; 

Old sorrows crystalled into pearls ; 

Losses by patience turned to gains, 

Possessions now, that once were pains ; 

Joy's blossom gone, as go it must, 

To ripen seeds of faith and trust ; 

Why heed a snow-flake on the roof 

If fire within keep Age aloof 

Though blundering north-winds push 
and strain 

With palms benumbed against the 
pane ? " 

My dear old Friend, you 're very wise ; 
We always are with others' ej 7 es, 
And see so. clear ! (our neighbor's deck 

on) 
What reef the idiot 's sure to wreck on ; 
Folks when they learn how life has 

quizzed 'em 
Are fain to make a shift with Wisdom, 
And, finding she nor breaks nor bends, 
Give her a letter to their friends. 
Draw passion's torrent whoso will 
Through sluices smooth to turn a mill, 
And, taking solid toll of grist, 
Forget the rainbow in the mist, 
The exulting leap, the aimless haste 
Scattered in iridescent waste ; 
Prefer who likes the sure esteem 
To cheated youth's midsummer dream, 
When every friend was more than 

Damon, 

27 



Each quicksand safe to build a fame on ; 
Believe that prudence snug excels 
Youth's gross of verdant spectacles, 
Through which earth's withered stubble 

seen 
Looksautumn-proofas paintedgreen, — 
I side with Moses 'gainst the masses, 
Take you the drudge, give me the 

glasses 1 
And, for your talents shaped with prac- 
tice, 
Convince me first that such the fact is ; 
Let whoso likes be beat, poor fool, 
On life's hard stithy to a tool, 
Be whoso will a ploughshare made, 
Let me remain a j oily blade ! 

What 's Knowledge, with her stocks 
and lands, 

To gay Conjecture's yellow strands ? 

What 's watching her slow flocks in- 
crease 

To ventures for the golden fleece ? 

What her deep ships, safe under lee, 

To youth's light craft, that drinks the 
sea. 

For Flying Islands making sail, 

And failing where 't is gain to fail ? 

Ah me ! Experience (so we 're told), 

Time's crucible, turns lead to gold ; 

Yet what 's experience won but dross, 

Cloud-gold transmuted to our loss ? 

What but base coin the best event 

To the untried experiment? 

'T was an old couple, says the poet, 
That lodged the gods and did not know 

it; 
Youth sees and knows them as they 

were 
Before Olympus' top was bare ; 
From Swampscot's flats his eye divine 
Sees Venus rocking on the brine, 
With lucent limbs, that somehow scat- 
ter a 
Charm that turns Doll to Cleopatra ; 
Bacchus (that new is scarce induced 
To give Eld's, lagging blood a boost), 
With cymbals' clang and pards to draw 

him, 
Divine as Ariadne saw him, 
Storms through Youth's pulse with all 

his train 
And wins new Indies in his brain ; 



4 i8 



AN EMBER PICTURE. 



Apollo (with the old a trope, 
A sort of finer Mister Pope), 

Apollo but the Muse forbids ; 

At his approach cast down thy lids, 
And think it joy enough to hear 
Far off his arrows singing clear ; 
He knows enough who silent knows 
The quiver chiming as he goes ; 
He tells too much who e^er betrays 
The shining Archer's secret ways. 

Dear Friend, you're right and I am 

wrong ; 
My quibbles are not worth a song, 
And I sophistically tease 
My fancy sad to tricks like these. 
I could not cheat you if I would ; 
You know me and my jesting mood, 
Mere surface-foam, for pride concealing 
The purpose of my deeper feeling. 
I have not spilt one drop of joy 
Poured in the senses of the boy, 
Nor Nature fails my walks to bless 
With all her golden inwardness ; 
And as blind nestlings, unafraid, 
Stretch up wide-mouthed to every shade 
By which their downy dream is stirred, 
Taking it for the mother-bird, 
So, when God's shadow, which is light, 
L/nheralded, by day or night, 
My wakening instincts falls across, 
Silent as sunbeams over moss, 
In my heart's nest half-conscious things 
Stir with a helpless sense of wings, 
Lift themselves up, and tremble long 
With premonitions sweet of song. 

Be patient, and perhaps (who knows?) 
These may be winged one day like 

those ; 
If thrushes, close-embowered to sing, 
Pierced through with June's delicious 

sting ; 
If swallows, their half-hour to run 
Star-breasted in the setting sun. 
At first they 're but the unfledged 

proem, 
Or songless schedule of a poem ; 
When from the shell they 're hardly dry 
If some folks thrust them forth, must I ? 

But let me end with a comparison 
Never yet hit upon by e'er a son 
Of our American Apollo, 



(And there 's where I shall beat them 

hollow, 
If he is not a courtly St. John, 
But, as West said, a Mohawk Injun.) 
A poem 's like a cruise for whales : 
Through untried seas the hunter sails. 
His prow dividing waters known 
To the blue iceberg's hulk alone ; 
At last, on farthest edge of day, 
He marks the smoky puff of spray ; 
Then with bent oars the shallop flies 
To where the basking quarry lies ; 
Then the excitement of the strife, 
The crimsoned waves, — ah, this is life 1 

But, the dead plunder once secured 
And safe beside the vessel moored, 
All that had stirred the blood before 
Is so much blubber, nothing more, 
(I mean no pun, nor image so 
Mere sentimental verse, you know,) 
And all is tedium, smoke, and soil, 
In trying-out the noisome oil. 

Yes, this is life ! And so the bard 
Through briny deserts, never scarred 
Since Noah's keel, a subject seeks, 
And lies upon the watch for weeks ; 
That once harpooned and helpless ly- 
ing, 
What follows is but weary trying. 

Now I 've a notion, if a poet 

Beat up for themes, his verse will show 

it ; 
I wait for subjects that hunt me, 
By day or night won't let me be, 
And hang about me like a curse, 
Till they have made me into verse, 
From line to line my fingers tease 
Beyond my knowledge, as the bees 
Build no new cell till those before 
With limpid summer-sweet run o'er ; 
Then, if I neither sing nor shine, 
Is it the subject's fault, or mine? 



AN EMBER PICTURE. 

How strange are the freaks of memory \ 
The lessons of life we forget, 

While a trifle, a trick of color, 
In the wonderful web is set, — 



memory \ 



TO H. W. L. 



4i9 



Set by some mordant of fancy, 
And, spite of the wear and tear 

Of time or distance or trouble, 
Insists on its right to be there. 

A chance had brought us together ; 

Our talk was of matters-of-course ; 
We were nothing, one to the other, 

But a short half-hour's resource. 

We spoke of French acting and actors, 
And their easy, natural way : 

Of the weather, for it was raining 
As we drove home from the play. 

We debated the social nothings 
We bore ourselves so to discuss ; 

The thunderous rumors of battle 
Were silent the while for us. 

Arrived at her door, we left her 
With a dnppingly hurried adieu, 

And our wheels went crunching the 
gravel 
Of the oak-darkened avenue. 

As we drove away through the shadow, 

The candle she held in the door 
From rain-varnished tree-trunk to tree- 
trunk 
Flashed fainter, and flashed no 
more ; — 

Flashed fainter, then wholly faded 
Before we had passed the wood ; 

But the light of the face behind it 
Went with me and stayed for good. 

The vision of scarce a moment, 
And hardly marked at the time, 

It comes unbidden to haunt me, 
Like a scrap of ballad-rhyme. 

Had she beauty ? Well, not what they 
call so ; 

You may find a thousand as fair ; 
And yet there 's her face in my memory 

With no special claim to be there. 

As I sit sometimes in the twilight, 
And call back to life in the coals 

Old faces and hopes and fancies 
Long buried, (good rest to their 
souls !) 



Her face shines out in the embers ; 

I see her holding the light, 
And hear the crunch of the gravel 

And the sweep of the rain that night 

'T is a face that can never grow older, 
That never can part with its gleam, 

'T is a gracious possession forever, 
For is it not all a dream ? 



TO H. W. L., 

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 
1867. 

I need not praise the sweetness of his 

song, 
Where limpid verse to limpid verse 

succeeds 
Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing 

lest he wrong 
The new moon's mirrored skiff, he 

slides along, # 
Full without noise, and whispers in 

his reeds. 

With loving breath of all the winds his 
name 
Is blown about the world, but to his 
friends 
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, 
And Love steals shyly through the loud 
acclaim 
To murmur a God Mess you ! and 
there ends. 

As I muse backward up the checkered 
years 
Wherein so much was given, so much 
was lost, 
Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen 

tears, — 
But hush ! this is not for profaner ears ; 
Let them drink molten pearls nor 
dream the cost. 

Some suck up poison from a sorrow's 

core, 
As naught but nightshade grew upon 

earth's ground ; 
Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and 

the more 



420 



THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY. 



Fate tried his bastions, she but forced 
a door 
Leading to sweeter manhood and 
more sound. 

Even as a wind- waved fountain's sway- 
ing shade 
Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith 
shot with sun, 

So through his trial faith translucent 
rayed 

Till darkness, half disnatured so, be- 
trayed 
A heart of sunshine that would fain 
o'errun. 

Surely if skill in song the shears may 
stay 
And of its purpose cheat the charmed 
abyss, 
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, 
He shall not go, although his presence 
may, 
And the next age in praise shall 
double this. 

Long days be his, and each as lusty- 
sweet 
As gracious natures find his song to 
be ; 
May Age steal on with softly-cadenced 

feet 
Falling in music, as for him were meet 
Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned 
than he ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE 
STUDY. 

" Come forth ! " my catbird calls to me, 
" And hear me sing a cavatina 

That, in this old familiar tree. 
Shall hang a garden of Alcina. 

" These buttercups shall brim with wine 
Beyond all Lesbian juice or Massic ; 

May not New England be divine ? 
My ode to ripening summer classic ? 

" Or, if to me you will not hark, 

By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing 

Till all the alder-coverts dark 

Seem sunshine-dappled with his sing- 
ing. 



" Come out beneath the unmastered 
sky, 

With its emancipating spaces, 
And learn to sing as well as I, 

Without premeditated graces. 

" What boot your many-volumed gains. 
Those withered leaves forever turn- 
, ing, v 

To win, at best, for all your pains, 
A nature mummy-wrapt in learning ? 

" The leaves wherein true wisdom lies 
On living trees the sun are drinking ; 

Those white clouds, drowsing through 
the skies, 
Grew not so beautiful by thinking. 

" Come out ! with me the oriole cries, 
Escape the demon that pursues you ! 

And, hark, the cuckoo weatherwise, 
Still hiding, farther onward wooes 
you." 

" Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, 
Has poured from that syringa thicket 

The quaintly discontinuous lays 
To which I hold a season-ticket, 

" A season-ticket cheaply bought 
With a dessert of pilfered berries, 

And who so oft my soul hast caught 
With morn and evening voluntaries, 

" Deem me not faithless, if all day 
Among my dusty books I linger, 

No pipe, like thee, for June to play 
With fancy-led, half-conscious finger. 

" A bird is singing in my brain 
And bubbling o'er with mingled 
fancies, 

Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain 
Fed with the sap of old romances. 

" I ask no ampler skies than those 
His magic music rears above me, 

No falser friends, no truer foes, — 
And does not Dona Clara love me? 

" Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars, 
A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing, 

Then silence deep with breathless stars, 
And overhead a white hand flashing. 



IN THE TWILIGHT. — THE FOOT-PA TH. 



421 



" O music of all moods and climes, 
Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly, 

Where still, between the Christian 
chimes, 
The moorish cymbal tinkles faintly ! 

" O life borne lightly in the hand. 
For friend or foe with grace Castilian 1 

O valley safe in Fancy's land, 

Not tramped to mud yet by the mil- 
lion ! 

" Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale 
To his, my singer of all weathers, 

My Calderon, my nightingale, 

My Arab soul in Spanish feathers. 

" Ah, friend, these singers dead so long, 
And still, God knows, in purgatory, 

Give its best sweetness to all song, 
To Nature's self her better glory." 



IN THE TWILIGHT. 

Men say the sullen instrument, 
That, from the Master's bow, 
With pangs of joy or woe, 
Feels music's soul through every fibre 
sent, 
Whispers the ravished strings 
More than he knew or meant ; 
Old summers in its memory glow ; 
The secrets of the wind it sings ; 
It hears the April-loosened springs ; 
And mixes with its mood 
All it dreamed when it stood 
. In the murmurous pine-wood 
Long ago ! 

The magical moonlight then 

Steeped every bough and cone ; 
The roar of the brook in the glen 

Came dim from the dis ance blown ; 
The wind through its glooms sang low, 
And it swayed to and fro 
With delight as it stood, 
In the wonderful wood, 
Long ago ! 

O my life, have we not had seasons 
That only said, Live and rejoice? 
That asked not for causes and reasons, 



But made us all feeling and voice ? 
When we went with the winds in their 
blowing, 
When Nature and we were peers, 
And we seemed to share in the flowing 
Of the inexhaustible years? 
Have we not from the earth drawn 

juices 
Too fine for earth's sordid uses? 
Have I heard, have I seen 

All I feel and I know? 
Doth my heart overween? 
Or could it have been 
Long ago ? 

Sometimes a breath floats by me, 
An odor from Dreamland sent, 
That makes the ghost seem nigh me 
Of a splendor that came and went, 
Of a life lived somewhere, I know 
not 
In what diviner sphere, 
Of memories that stay not and go not, 
Like music heard once by an ear 
That cannot forget or reclaim it, 
A something so shy, it would shame 
it 
To make it a show, 
A something too vague, could I 
name it, 
For others to know, 
As if I had lived it or dreamed it, 
As if I had acted or schemed it, 
Long ago ! 

And yet, could I live it over, 

This life that stirs in my brain, 
Could I be both maiden and lover, 
Moon and tide, bee and clover, 

As I seem to have been, once again, 
Could I but speak and show it, 
This pleasure more sharp than pain, 
That baffles and lures me so, 
The world should not lack a poet, 
Such as it had 
In the ages glad, 

Long ago ! 



THE FOOT-PATH. 

It mounts athwart the windy hill 
Through sallow slopes of upland bare, 



422 



THE FOOT-PATH. 



And Fancy climbs with foot-fall still 
Its narrowing curves that end in air. 

By day, a warmer-hearted blue 
Stoops softly to that topmost swell ; 

Its thread-like windings seem a clew 
To gracious climes where all is well. 

By night, far yonder, I surmise 

An ampler world than clips my ken, 

Where the great stars of happier skies 
Commingle nobler fates of men. 

I look and long, then haste me home, 
Still master of my secret rare ; 

Once tried, the path would end in 
Rome, 
But now it leads me everywhere. 

Forever to the new it guides, 
From former good, old overmuch ; 

What Nature for her poets hides, 
'T is wiser to divine than clutch. 

The bird I list hath never come 
Within the scope of mortal ear ; 

My prying step would make him dumb, 
And the fair tree, his shelter, sear. 

Behind the hill, behind the sky, 

Behind my inmost thought, he sings ; 

No feet avail ; to hear it nigh, 
The song itself must lend the wings. 

Sing on, sweet bird close hid, and raise 
Those angel stairways in my brain, 

That climb from these low-vaulted days 
To spacious sunshines far from pain. 

Sing when thou wilt, enchantment fleet, 
I leave thy covert haunt untrod, 



And envy Science not her feat 
To make a twice-told tale of God. 

They said the fairies tript no more, 
And long ago that Pan was dead ; 

'T was but that fools preferred to bore 
Earth's rind inch-deep for truth in- 
stead. 

Pan leaps and pipes all summer long, 
The fairies dance each full-mooned 
night, 

Would we but doff our lenses strong, 
And trust our wiser eyes' delight. 

City of Elf-land, just without 
Our seeing, marvel ever new, 

Glimpsed in fair weather, a sweet doubt 
Sketched-in, mirage-like, on the blue. 

I build thee in yon sunset cloud, 
Whose edge allures to climb the 
height ; 
I hear thy drowned bells, inly-loud, 
From still pools dusk with dreams 
of night. 
Thy gates are shut to hardiest will, 

Thy countersign of long-lost speech,— 
Those fountained courts, those cham- 
bers still, 
Fronting Time's far East, who shall 
reach ? 

I know not and will never pry, 
But trust our human heart for all ; 

Wonders that from the seeker fly 
Into an open sense may fall. 

Hide in thine own soul, and surprise 
The password of the unwary elves ; 

Seek it, thou canst not bribe their 
spies ; 
Unsought, they whisper it themselves. 



THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD. 



423 



POEMS OF THE WAR. 



THE WASHERS OF THE 
SHROUD. 

October, 1861. 

Along a river-side, I know not where, 
I walked one night in mystery of 

dream ; 
A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my 

hair, 
To think what chanced me by the pallid 

gleam 
Of a moon-wraith that waned through 

haunted air. 

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow- 
mist 

Their halos, wavering thistledowns of 
light ; 

The loon, that seemed to mock some 
goblin tryst, 

Laughed ; and the echoes, huddling 
in affright, 

Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down 
the night. 

Then all was silent, till there smote my 

ear 
A movement in the stream that checked 

my breath : 
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? 
But something said, " This water is of 

Death ! 
The Sisters wash a shroud, — ill thing 

to hear ! " 

I, looking then, beheld the ancient 
Three 

Known to the Greek'sandtothe North- 
man's creed, 

That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, 



Still crooning, as they weave their end- 
less brede, 

One song : " Time was, Time is, and 
Time shall be." 

No wrinkled crones were they, as I 

had deemed, 
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, 
To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed ; 
Something too high for joy, too deep 

for sorrow, 
Thrilled in their tones, and from their 

faces gleamed. 

" Still men and nations reap as they 

have strawn," 
So sang they, working at their task the 

while ; 
" The fatal raiment must be cleansed 

ere dawn : 
For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's 

isle ? 
O'er what quenched grandeur must our 

shroud be drawn ? 

" Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, 
That gathered States for children round 

his knees, 
That tamed the wave to be his posting- 
horse, 
Feller of forests, linker of the seas, 
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest 
son of Thor's ? 

" What make we, murmur' st thou ? and 

what are we ? 
When empires must be wound, we 

bring the shroud, 
The timVold web of the implacable 

Three : 



4*4 



THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD. 



Is it too coarse for him, the young and 

proud ? 
Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it, — 

why not he ? " 

"Is there no hope?" I moaned, "so 

strong, so fair ! 
Our Fowler whose proud bird would 

brook erewhile 
No rival's swoop in all our western air ! 
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file 
For him, life's morn yet golden in his 

hair? 

" Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying 

dames ! 
I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who 

scanned 
The stars, Earth's elders, still must 

noblest aims 
Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands ? 
Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts 

of names ? " 

"When grass-blades stiffen with red 

battle-dew, 
Ye deem we choose the victor and the 

slain : 
Say, choose we them that shall be leal 

and true 
To the heart's longing, the high faith 

of brain ? 
Yet there the victory lies, if ye but 

knew. 

" Three roots bear up Dominion : 

Knowledge, Will, — 
These twain are strong, but stronger 

yet the third, — 
Obedience, — 't is the great tap-root 

that still, 
Knit round the rock of Duty, is not 

stirred, 
Though Heaven-loosed tempests spend 

their utmost skill. 

" Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'T 

is not we 
Denounce it, but the Law before all 

time : 
The brave makes danger opportunity ; 
The waverer, paltering with the chance 

sublime, 
Dwarfs it to peril : which shall Hesper 

be? 



" Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's 

seat 
To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their 

maw? 
1 Hath he the Many's plaudits found 

more sweet 
Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind 

for Law ? 
Then let him hearken for the doom* 

ster's feet ! 

" Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in 
flintiest rock, 

States climb to power by ; slippery 
those with gold 

Down which they stumble to eternal 
mock : 

No chafferer's hand shall long the scep- 
tre hold, 

Who, given a Fate to Shape, would sell 
the block. 

" We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and 

woe, 
Mystic because too cheaply understood; 
Dark sayings are not ours ; men hear 

and know, 
See Evil weak, see strength alone in 

Good, 
Ye* hope to stem God's fire with wall? 

of tow. 

" Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time 

Is, 
That offers choice of glory or of gloom ; 
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely 

his. 
But hasten, Sisters ! for even now the 

tomb 
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the 

abyss." 

"But not for him," I cried, "not yet 

for him, 
Whose large horizon, westering, star by 

star 
Wins from the void to where on Ocean'? 

rim 
The sunset shuts the world with golden 

bar, 
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye 

grow dim ! 

"His shall be larger manhood, saved 
for those 



TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLOND EL, 



425 



Th&t walk unblenching through the 

trial-fires ; 
Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst 

of woes, 
And he no base-born son of craven " 

sires, 
Whose eye need blench confronted with 

his foes. 

"Tears may be ours, but proud, for 

those who win 
Death's royal purple in the foeman's 

lines ; 
Peace, too, brings tears ; and 'mid the 

battle-din, 
The wiser ear some text of God divines, 
For the sheathed blade may rust with 

darker sin. 

" God, give us peace ! not such as lulls 
to sleep, 

But sword on thigh, and brow with pur- 
pose knit ! 

And let our Ship of State to harbor 
sweep, 

Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, 

And her leashed thunders gathering for 
their leap ! " 

So cried I with clenched hands and 

passionate pain, 
Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's 

side ; 
Again the loon laughed mocking, and 

again 
The echoes bayed far down the night 

and died, 
While waking I recalled my wandering 

brain. 



TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE 
OF BLONDEL. 

AUTUMN, 1863. 

Scene I. — Near a Castle in Germany. 

'T were no hard task, perchance, to 
win 
The popular laurel for my song ; 
'T were only to comply with sin, 
And own the crown, though snatched 
by wrong : 



Rather Truth's chaplet let me wear, 
Though sharp as death its thorns may 
stmg ; 

Loyal to Loyalty, I bear 
No badg^ but of my rightful king. 

Patient by town and tower I wait, 

Or o'er the blustering moorland go ; 
I buy no praise at cheaper rate, 

Or what faint hearts may fancy so ; 
For me, no joy in lady's bower, 

Or hall, or tourney, will I sing, 
Till the slow stars wheel round the hour 

That crowns my hero and my king. 

While all the land runs red with strife, 

And wealth is won by pedler-crimes, 
Let who will find content in life 

And tinkle in unmanly rhymes ; 
I wait and seek ; through dark and 
light, 

Safe in my heart my hope I bring, 
Till I once more my faith may plight 

To him my whole soul owns her king. 

When power is filched by drone and 
dolt, 
And, with caught breath and flashing 
eye, 
Her knuckles whitening round the bolt, 
Vengeance leans eager from the sky, 
While this and that the people guess, 

And to the skirts of praters cling, 
Who court the crowd they should com- 
press, 
I turn in scorn to seek my king. 

Shut in what tower of darkling chance 

Or dungeon of a narrow doom, 
Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance 
That for the Cross make crashing 
room ? 
Come ! with hushed breath the battle 
waits 
In the wild van thy mace's swing ; 
While doubters parley with their fates, 
Make thou thine own and ours, my 
king ! 

O, strong to keep upright the old, 
And wise to buttress with the new, 

Prudent, as only are the bold, 
Clear-eyed, as only are the true, 

To foes benign, to friendship stern, 



436 



TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLONDEL. 



Intent to imp Law's broken wing, 
Who would not die, if death might earn 
The right to kiss thy hand, my king ? 

Scene II. — A « Inn near the Chateau 
of Chains. 

Well, the whole thing is over, and 
here I sit 
With one arm in a sling and a milk- 
score of gashes, 
And this flagon of Cyprus must e'en 
warm my wit, 
Since what's left of youth's flame is a 
head flecked with ashes. 
I remember I sat in this very same 
inn, — 
I was young then, and one young man 
thought I was handsome, — 
I had found out what prison King 
Richard was in, 
And was spurring for England to push 
on the ransom. 

How I scorned the dull souls that sat 
guzzling around 
And knew not my secret nor recked 
my derision ! 
Let the world sink or swim, John or 
Richard be crowned, 
All one, so the beer-tax got lenient 
revision. 
How little I dreamed, as I tramped up 
and down, 
That granting our wish one of Fate's 
saddest jokes is ! 
I had mine with a vengeance, — my 
king got his crown, 
And made his whole business to 
break other folks's. 

I might as well join in the safe old turn, 
turn : 
A hero's an excellent loadstar, — 
but, bless ye, 
What infinite odds 'twixt a hero to come 
And your only too palpable hero in 
esse I 
Precisely the odds (such examples are 
rife) 
'Twixt the poem conceived and the 
rhyme we make show of, 
'Twixt the boy's morning dream and 
the wake-up of life, 



'Twixt the Blondel God meant and a 
Blondel I know of ! 

But the world 's better off, I 'm con- 
vinced of it now, 
Than if heroes, like buns, could be 
bought for a penny 
To regard all mankind as their haltered 
milch-cow, 
And just care for themselves. Well, 
God cares for the many ; 
For somehow the poor old Earth blun- 
ders along, 
Each son of hers adding his mite of 
unfitness, 
And, choosing the sure way of coming 
out wrong, 
Gets to port as the next generation 
will witness. 

You think her old ribs have come all 
crashing through, 
If a whisk of Fate's broom snap your 
cobweb asunder; 
But her rivets were clinched by a wiser 
than you, 
And our sins cannot push the Lord's 
right hand from under. 
Better one honest man who can wait 
for God's mind 
In our poor shifting scene here, 
though heroes were plenty ! 
Better one bite, at forty, of Truth's 
bitter rind, 
Than the hot wine that gushed from 
the vintage of twenty ! 

I see it all now : when I wanted a 
king, 
'T was the kingship that failed in 
myself I was seeking, — 
'T is so much less easy to do than to 
sing, 
So much simpler to reign by a proxy . 
than be king ! 
Yes, I think I do see : after all 's said 
and sung, 
Take this one rule of life and you 
never will rue it, — 
'T is but do your own duty and hold 
your own tongue 
And Blondel were royal himself, if 
he knew it ! 



MEMORISE POSITUM. 



427 



MEMORISE POSITUM. 

R. G. S. 



Beneath the trees, 
My life-long friends in this dear spot, 
Sad now for eyes that see them not 
I hear the autumnal breeze 
Wake the sear leaves to sigh for glad- 
ness gone, 
Whispering hoarse presage of obliv- 
ion, — 
Hear, restless as the seas, 
Time's grim feet rustling through the 

withered grace 
Of many a spreading realm and strong- 
stemmed race, 
Even as my own through these. 

Why make we moan 
For loss that doth enrich us yet 
With upward yearnings of regret ? 
Bleaker than unmossed stone 
Our lives were but for this immortal 

gain .. 

Of uns tilled longing and inspiring 
pain ! 
As thrills of long-hushed tone 
Live in the viol, so our souls grow 

fine 
With keen vibrations from the touch 
divine 
Of noble natures gone. 

'T were indiscreet 
To vex the shy and sacred grief 
With harsh obtrusions of relief ; 
Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet, 
Go whisper : " This death hath far 

choicer ends 
Than slowly to impearl in hearts of 
friends ; 
These obsequies 't is meet 
Not to seclude in closets of the heart, 
But, church-like, with wide doorways, 
to impart 
Even to the heedless street." 



Brave, good, and true, 
I see him stand before me now, 
And read again on that young brow, 

Where every hope was new, 



How sweet were life ! Yet, by the 
mouth firm-set, 

And look made up for Duty's utmost 
debt, 
I could divine he knew 

That death within the sulphurous hos- 
tile lines, 

In the mere wreck of nobly-pitched 
designs, 
Plucks heart's-ease, and not rue. 

Happy their end 
Who vanish down life's evening 

stream 
Placid as swans that drift in dream 
Round the next river-bend ! 
Happy long life, with honor at the close, 
Friends' painless tears, the softened 
thought of foes ! 
And yet, like him, to spend 
All at a gush, keeping our first faith 

sure 
From mid-life's doubt and eld's con- 
tentment poor, — 
What more could Fortune send? 

Right in the van, 
On the red rampart's slippery swell, 
With heart that beat a charge, he fell 
Foeward, as fits a man ; 
But the high soul burns on to light 

men's feet 
Where death for noble ends makes dy- 
ing sweet ; 
His life her crescent's span 
Orbs full with share in their undarken- 

ing days 
Who ever climbed the battailous steeps 
of praise 
Since valor's praise began. 



His life's expense 
Hath won for him coeval youth 
With the immaculate prime of Truth ; 
While we, who make pretence 
At living on, and wake and eat and 

_ sleep, 
And life's stale trick by repetition keep, 

Our fickle permanence 
(A poor leaf-shadow on a brook, whose 

play 
Of busy idlesse ceases with our day) 
Is the mere cheat of sense. 



428 



ON BOARD THE '76. 



We bide our chance, 
Unhappy, and make terms with Fate 
A little more to let us wait ; 
He leads for aye the advance, 
Hope's forlorn-hopes that plant the 

desperate good 
For nobler Earths and days of manlier 
mood ; 
Our wall of circumstance 
Cleared at a bound, he flashes o'er the 

fight, 
A saintly shape of fame, to cheer the 
right 
And steel each wavering glance. 

I write of one, 
While, with dim eyes 1 think of three ; 
Who weeps not others fair and brave 
as he ? 
Ah, when the fight is won, 
Dear Land, whom triflers now make 

bold to scorn, 
(Thee ! from , whose forehead Earth 
awaits her morn,) 
How nobler shall the sun 
Flame in thy sky, how braver breathe 

thy air, 
That thou bred'st children who for thee 
could dare 
And die as thine have done ! 
1863. 



ON BOARD THE '76. 

written for mr. bryant's seven- 
tieth birthday. 

November 3, 1864. 

Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, 
Her rudder gone, her main-mast 
o'er the side ; 
Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch 
staggering free 
Trailed threads of priceless crimson 
through the tide : 
Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate 
cannon torn, 
We lay, awaiting morn. 

Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks 
despair ; 
And she that bore the promise of the 
world 



Within her sides, now hopeless, helm- 
less, bare, 
At random o'er the wildering waters 
hurled; 
The reek of battle drifting slow alee 
Not sullener than we. 

Morn came at last to peer into our 
woe, 
When lo, a sail! Now surely help 
was nigh ; 
The red cross flames aloft, Christ's 
pledge ; but no, 
Her black guns grinning hate, she 
rushes by 
And hails us : — " Gains the leak ! Ay, 
so we thought ! 
Sink, then, with curses fraught ! " 

I leaned against my gun still angry- 
hot, 
And my lids tingled with the tears 
held back ; 
This scorn methought was crueller than 
shot : 
The manly death-grip in the battle- 
wrack, 
Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more 
friendly far 
Than such fear-smothered war. 

There our foe wallowed, like a wounded 
brute 
The fiercer for his hurt. What now 
were best ? 
Once more tug bravely at the peril's 
root, 
Though death came with it? Or 
evade the test 
If right or wrong in this God's world of 
ours 
Be leagued with higher powers? 

Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses 
lag 
With the slow beat that doubts and 
then despairs ; 
Some, caitiff, would have struck the 
starry flag 
That knits us with our past, and 
makes us heirs 
Of deeds high-hearted as were ever 
done 
'Neath the all-seeing sun. 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 



429 



Bat there was one, the Singer of our 
crew, 
Upon whose head Age waved his 
peaceful sign, 
But whose red heart's-blood no sur- 
render knew ; 
And couchant under brows of mas- 
sive line, 
The eyes, like guns beneath a parapet, 
Watched, charged with lightnings 
yet. 

The voices of the hills did his obey ; 
The torrents flashed and tumbled in 
his song; 
He brought our native fields from far 
away, 
Or set us 'mid the innumerable 
throng 
Of dateless woods, or where we heard 
the calm 
Old homestead's evening psalm. 

But now he sang of faith to things un- 
seen, 
Of freedom's birthright given to us in 
trust ; 
And words of doughty cheer he spoke 
between, 
That made all' earthly fortune seem 
as dust, 
Matched with- that duty, old as Time 
and new, 
Of being brave and true. 

We, listening, learned what makes the 
might of words, — 
Manhood to back them, constant as 
a star ; 
His voice rammed home our cannon, 
edged our swords, 
And sent our boarders shouting ; 
shroud and spar 
Heard him and stiffened ; the sails 
heard, and. wooed 
The winds with loftier mood. 

In our dark hours he manned our guns 
again ; 
Remanned ourselves from his own 
manhood's store ; 
Pride, honor, country, throbbed through 
all his strain ; 
And shall we praise? God's praise 
was his before ; 



And on our futile laurels he looks 
down, 
Himself our bravest crown. 



ODE RECITED AT THE HAR- 
VARD COMMEMORATION. 

July 21, 1865. 



Weak-winged is song, 

Nor aims at that clear-ethered height 

Whither the brave deed climbs for 

light : 
We seem to do them wrong, 
Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their 

hearse 
Who in warm life-blood wrote their 

nobler verse, 
Our trivial song to honor those who 

come 
With ears attuned to strenuous trump 

and drum, 
And shaped in squadron -strophes their 

desire, 
Live battle-odes whose lines were 

steel and fire : 
Yet sometimes feathered words are 

strong, 
A gracious memory to buoy up and 

save 
From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the com- 
mon grave 
Of the unventurous throng. 



To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes 
back 
Her wisest Scholars, those who un- 
derstood 
The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, 
And offered their fresh lives to make 
it good : 
No lore of Greece or Rome, 
No science peddling with the names of 

things, 
Or reading stars to find inglorious fates, 

Can lift our life with wings 
Far from Death's idle gulf that for the 
many waits, 



43° 



COMMEMORA TION ODE. 



And lengthen out our dates 
With that clear fame whose memory 

sings 
In manly hearts to come, and nerves 

them and dilates : 
Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us 
all! 
Not such the trumpet-call 
Of thy diviner mood, 
That could thy sons entice 
From happy homes and toils, the fruit- 
ful nest 
Of those half- virtues which the world 
calls best, 
Into War's tumult rude ; 
But rather far that stern device 
The sponsors chose that round thy 
cradle stood 
In the dim, unventured wood, 
The Veritas that lurks beneath 
The letter's unprolific sheath, 
Life of whate'er makes life worth 
living, 
Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal 
food, 
One heavenly thing whereof earth 
hath the giving. 



Many loved Truth, and lavished life's 
best oil 
Amid the dusk of books to find her, 
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, 
With the cast mantle she hath left 
behind her. 
Many in sad faith sought for her, 
Many with crossed hands sighed 

for her ; 
But these, our brothers, fought for 

her, 
At life's dear peril wrought for her, 
So loved her that they died for her, 
Tasting the raptured fleetness 
Of her divine completeness : 
Their higher instinct knew 
Those love her best who to themselves 

are true, 
And what they dare to dream of, dare 
to do ; 
They followed her and found her 
Where all may hope to find, 
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, ' 



But beautiful, with danger's sweetness 
round her. 
Where faith made whole with deed 
Breathes its awakening breath 
Into the lifeless creed, 
They saw her plumed and mailed, 
With sweet stern face unveiled, 
And all-repaying eyes, look proud on 
them in death. 



Our slender life runs rippling by, and 
glides 
Into the silent hollow of the past ; 

What is there that abides 
To make the next age better for the 
last? 
Is earth too poor to give us 
Something to live for here that shall 
outlive us ? 
Some more substantial boon 
Than such as flows and ebbs with For- 
tune's fickle moon ? 
The little that we see 
From doubt is never free ; 
The little that we do 
Is but half-nobly true ; 
With our laborious hiving 
What men call treasure, and the gods 
call dross, 
Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, 
Only secure in every one's conniving, 
A long account of nothings paid with 

loss, 
Where we poor puppets, jerked by un- 
seen wires, 
After our little hour of strut and rave, 
With all our pasteboard passions and 

desires, 
Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal 
fires, 
Are tossed pell-mell together in the 

grave. 
But stay ! no age was e'er degenerate, 
Unless men held it at too cheapa rate, 
For in our likeness still we shape our 
fate 
Ah, there is something here 
Unfathqmed by the cynic's sneer, 
Something that gives our feeble light 
A high immunity from Night, 
Something that leaps life's narrow 
bars 



; 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 



43x 



To claim its birthright with the hosts 
of heaven ; 
A seed of sunshine that doth leaven 
Our earthly dulness with the beams 
of stars, 
And glorify our clay 
With light from fountains elder than 
the Day ; 
A conscience more divine than we, 
A gladness fed with secret tears, 
A vexing, forward-reaching sense 
Of some more noble permanence ; 
A light across the sea, 
Which haunts the soul and will not 
let it be, 
Still glimmering from the heights of 
undegenerate years. 



Whither leads the path 
To ampler fates that leads ? 
Not down through flowery 

meads, 
To reap an aftermath 
Of youth's vainglorious weeds, 
But up the steep, amid the wrath 
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, 
Where the world's best hope and 
stay 
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate 

way. 
And every turf the fierce foot clings-to 
bleeds. 
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, 
Ere yet the sharp, decisive word 
Light the black lips of cannon, and the 
sword 
Dreams in its easeful sheath ; 
But some day the live coal behind the 
thought, 
Whether from Baal's stone ob- 
scene, 
Or from the shrine serene 
Of God's pure altar brought, 
Bursts up in flame ; the war oflongue 

and pen 
Learns with what deadly purpose it 

was fraught, 
And, helpless in the fiery passion 

caught. 
Shakes all the pillared state with shock 

of men : 
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed 



Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, 
And cries reproachful : " Was it, then, 

my praise, 
And not myself was loved ? Prove now 

thy truth ; 
I claim of thee the promise of thy 

youth ; 
Give me thy life, or cower in empty 

phrase, 
The victim of thy genius, not its mate ! " 
Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 
So bountiful is Fate ; 
But then to stand beside her, 
W T hen craven churls deride her, 
To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
This shows, methinks, God's 

plan 
And measure of a stalwart man, 
Limbed like the old heroic 

breeds, 
Who stand self-poised on man- 
hood's solid earth, 
Not forced to frame excuses for his 
birth, 
Fed from within with all the strength 
he needs. 



Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 

Whom late the Nation he had led, 
With ashes on her head, 
Wept with the passion of an angry 

grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things I 

turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat 

and burn, 
And hang my wreath on his world- 
honored urn. 
Nature, they say, doth dote, 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old World moulds aside 
she threw, 
And, choosing sweet clay from the 
breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero 
new, 



432 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 



Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, 
and true. 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind in- 
deed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved 

to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed 
to be, 
Not lured by any cheat of birth, 
But by his clear-grained human 
worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
They knew that outward grace is 

dust ; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering 
skill, 
And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring 
again and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak 

of mind, 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy 

bars, 
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors 

blind ; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level- 
lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human 
kind, 
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of 
loftiest stars. 
Nothing of Europe here, 
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward 
still, 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme de- 
face ; 
Here was a type of the true elder 
race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with 
us face to face. 
I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
And some innative weakness there must 

be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot 
wait, 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time, 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 



Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and 
drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
But at last silence comes ; 
These all are gone, and, standing 

like a tower, 
Our children shall behold his fame, 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foresee- 
ing man, 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, 
not blame, 
New birth of our new soil, the first 
American. 



Long as man's hope insatiate can 

discern 
Or only guess some more inspir- 
ing goal 
Outside of Self, enduring as the 

pole, 
Along whose course the flying axles 

burn 
Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's 

manlier brood ; 
Long as below we cannot find 
The meed that stills the inexorable 

mind ; 
So long this faith to some ideal Good, 
Under whatever mortal names it 

masks, 
Freedom, Law, Country, this ethe- 
real mood 
That thanks the Fates for their severer 

tasks, 
Feeling its challenged pulses leap, 
While others skulk in subterfuges 

cheap, 
And, set in Danger's van, has all the 

boon it asks, 
Shall win man's praise and woman's 

love, 
Shall be a wisdom that we set above 
All other skills and gifts to culture dear, 
A virtue round whose forehead we 

inwreathe 
Laurels that with a living passion 

breathe 
When other crowns grow, while v/e 

twine them, sear. 
What brings us thronging these high 

rites to pay, 



COMMEMORA TION ODE. 



433 



And seal these hours the noblest of our 
year, 
Save that our brothers found this 

better way ? 



We sit here in the Promised Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey 

and milk ; 
But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 
Making the nettle danger soft for us as 
silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and 

our best ; — 
Ah me ! not all ! some come not with 
the rest, 
Who went forth brave and bright as 

any here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my 
strain, 
But the sad strings complain, 
And will not please the ear : 
I sweep them for a pa^an, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away,in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the 

gaps, 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb 

turf wraps, 
Dark to the triumph which they died 
to gain : 
Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving ; 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead, 
Who went, and who return not. — Say 

not so ! 
'T is not the grapes of Canaan that re- 

But the high faith that failed not by 

the way ; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the 

grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the 

brave ; 
And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed 

behind. 
Blow, trumpets, all your exultations 

blow ! 
For never shall their aureoled presence 

lack : 
I see them muster in a gleaming row, 

23 



With ever-youthful brows that nobler 

show ; 
We find in our dull road their shining 
track ; 
In every nobler mood 
We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 
Part of our life's unalterable good, 
Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 

They come transfigured back, 
Secure from change in their high- 
hearted ways, 
Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 
Of morn on their white Shields of Ex- 
pectation ! 



But is there hope to save 
Even this ethereal essence from the 

grave ? 
What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle 
wrong 
Save a few clarion names, or golden 
threads of song? 
Before my musing eye 
The mighty ones of old sweep by, 
• Disvoiced now and insubstantial 

things, 
As noisy once as we ; poor ghosts of 

kings, 
Shadows of empire wholly gone to 

dust, 
And many races, nameless long ago, 
To darkness driven by that imperious 

gust 
Of ever-rushing Time that here doth 

blow : 
O visionary world, condition strange, 
Where naught abiding is but only 
Change, 
Where the deep-bolted stars themselves 
still shift and range ! 
Shall we to more continuance make 
pretence ? 
Renown builds tombs ; a life-estate is 
Wit; 
And, bit by bit, 
The cunning years steal all from us but 
woe ; 
Leaves are we, whose decays no har- 
vest sow. 
But, when we vanish hence, 
Shall they lie forceless in the dark 
below, 



434 



COMMEMORA TION ODE. 



Save to make green their little length 

of sods, 
Or deepen pansies for a year or two, 
Who now to us are shining-sweet as 

gods? 
Was dying all they had the skill to 

do? 
That were not fruitless : but the Soul 

resents 
Such short-lived service, as if blind 

events 
Ruled without her, or earth could so 

endure ; 
She claims a more divine investiture 
Of longer tenure than Fame's airy 

rents ; 
Whate'er she touches doth her nature 

share ; 
Her inspiration haunts the ennobled 

air, 
Gives eyes to mountains blind, 
Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the 

wind, 
And her clear trump sings succor 

everywhere 
By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful 

mind ; 
For soul inherits all that soul could 

dare : 
Yea, Manhood hath a wider span 
And larger privilege of life than man. 
The single deed, the private sacrifice, 
So radiant now through proudly- 
hidden tears, 
Is covered up erelong from mortal 

eyes 
With thoughtless drift of the decidu- 
ous years ; 
But that high privilege that makes all 

men peers, 
That leap of heart whereby a people 

rise 
Up to a noble anger's height, 
And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, 

but grow more bright, 
That swift validity in noble veins, 
Of choosing danger and disdaining 

shame, 

Of being set on flame 
By the pure fire tha* flies all contact 

base, 
But wraps its chosen with angelic 

might, 
These are imperishable gains, 



Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, 
These hold great futures in their lusty 

reins 
And certify to earth a new imperial 

race. 



Who now shall sneer? 
Who dare again to say we trace 
Our lines to a plebeian race ? 
Roundhead and Cavalier ! 
Dumb are those names erewhile in 

battle loud ; 
Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, 

They flit across the ear : 
That is best blood that hath most iron 

in 't 
To edge resolve with, pouring without 
stint 
For what makes manhood dear. 
Tell us not of Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin 

bloods crawl 
Down from some victor in a border- 
brawl ! 
How poor their outworn coronets, 
Matched with one leaf of that plain 

civic wreath 
Our brave for honor's blazon shall be- 
queath, 
Through whose desert a rescued Na- 
tion sets 
Her heel on treason, and the trumpet 

hears 
Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen 
ears 
With vain resentments and more vam 
regrets ! 



Not in anger, not in pride, 
Pure from passion's mixture rude 
Ever to base earth allied, 
But with far-heard gratitude, 
Still with heart and voice re- 
newed, 
To heroes living and dear martyrs 
dead. 
The strain should close that consecrates 
our brave. 
Lift the heart and lift the head ! 
Lofty be its mood and grave, 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 



435 



Not without a martial ring, 
Not without a prouder tread 
And a peal of exultation : 
Little right has he to sing 
Through whose heart in such an 

hour 
Beats no march of conscious 

power, 
Sweeps no tumult of elation ! 
'T is no Man we celebrate, 
By his country's victories great, 
A hero half, and half the whim of 
Fate, 
But the pith and marrow of a 

Nation 
Drawing force from all her men, 
Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 
For her time of need, and then 
Pulsing it again through them, 
Till the basest can no longer cower, 
Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, 
Touched but in passing by her mantle- 
hem. 
Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is 
her dower ! 
How could poet ever tower, 
If his passions, hopes, and fears, 
If his triumphs and his tears, 
Kept not measure with his peo- 
ple? 
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds 

and waves ! 
Clash out, glad bells, from every rock- 
ing steeple ! 
Banners, adance with triumph, bend 
your staves ! 
And from every mountain-peak 
Let beacon-fire to answering bea- 
con speak, 
Katahdin tell Monadnock, White- 
face he, 
And so leap on in light from sea to sea, 
Till the glad news be sent 
Across a kindling continent, 
Making earth feel more firm and air 

breathe braver : 
'Be proud ! for she is saved, and all 
have helped to save her ! 
She that lifts up the manhood of 

the poor, 
She of the open soul and open door, 
With room abcut her hearth for all 

mankind ! 
The fire is dreadful in her eyes no 
more ; 



From her bold front the helm she 

doth unbind, 
Sends all her handmaid armies 

back to spin, 
And bids her navies, that so lately 

hurled 
Their crashing battle, hold their 

thunders in, 
Swimming like birds of calm along 

the unharmful shore. 
No challenge sends she to the eldei 

world, 
That looked askance and hated ; a 

light scorn 
Plays o'er her mouth, as round her 

mighty knees 
She calls her children back, and 

waits the morn 
Of nobler day, enthroned between her 

subject seas." 



Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast 
found release ! 
Thy God, in these distempered 

days, 
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of 
His ways, 
And through thine enemies hath 
wrought thy peace ! 
Bow down in prayer and praise ! 
No poorest in thy borders but may now 
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfran- 
chised brow, 
O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours once 

more ! 
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled 

hair 
O'er such sweet brows as never other 
wore, 
And letting thy set lips, 
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, 
The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, 
What words divine of lover or of poet 
Could tell our love and make thee 

know it, 
Among the Nations bright beyond 
compare ? 
What were our lives without 

thee? 
What all our lives to save thee? 
We reck not what we gave thee ; 
We will not dare to doubt thee, 
But ask whatever else, and we will 
dare ! 



436 



VENVOI. 



RENVOI. 



TO THE MUSE. 



Whither? Albeit I follow fast, 

In all life's circuit I but find, 
Not where thou art, but where thou 
wast, 

Sweet beckoner, more fleet than 
wind ! 
I haunt the pine-dark solitudes, 

With soft brown silence carpeted, 
And plot to snare thee in the woods : 

Peace I o'ertake, but thou art fled ! 
I find the rock where thou didst rest, 
The moss thy skimming foot hath 
prest ; 

All Nature with thy parting thrills, 
Like branches after birds new-flown ; 

Thy passage hill and hollow fills 
With hints of virtue not their own ; 
In dimples still the water slips 
Where thou hast dipt thy finger-tips ; 

Just, just beyond, forever burn 

Gleams of a grace without return ; 

Upon thy shade I plant my foot, 
And through my frame strange rap- 
tures shoot ; 
All of thee but thyself I grasp ; 

I seem to fold thy luring shape, 
And vague air to my bosom clasp, 

Thou lithe, perpetual Escape ! 

One mask and then another drops, 
And thou art secret as before : 
Sometimes with flooded ear I list, 
And hear thee, wondrous organist, 
From mighty continental stops 
A thunder of new music pour ; 
Through pipes of earth and air and 

stone 
Thy inspiration deep is blown ; 
Through mountains, forests, open 

downs, 
Lakes, railroads, prairies, states, and 

towns, 
Thy gathering fugue goes rolling on 



From Maine to utmost Oregon ; 
The factory-wheels in cadence hum, 
From brawling parties concords come; 
All this 1 hear, or seem to hear, 
But when, enchanted, I draw near 
To mate with words the various theme, 
Life seems a whiff of kitchen steam, 
History an organ-grinder's thrum, 

For thou hast slipt from it and me 
And all thine organ-pipes left dumb, 

Most mutable Perversity ! 

Not weary yet, I still must seek, 
And hope for luck next day, next week ; 
I go to see the great man ride, 
Shiplike, the swelling human tide 
That floods to bear him into port, 
Trophied from Senate-hall and Court ; 
Thy magnetism, I feel it there, 
Thy rhythmic presence fleet and rare, 
Making the Mob a moment fine 
With glimpses of their own Divine, 
As in their demigod they see 

Their cramped ideal soaring free ; 
'T was thou didst bear the fire about, 

That, like the springing of a mine 
Sent up to heaven the street-long 

shout ; 
Full well I know that thou wast here, 
It was thy breath that brushed my ear ; 
But vainly in the stress and whirl 
I dive for thee, the moment's pearl. 

Through every shape thou well canst 
run, 

Proteus, 'twixt rise and set of sun, 

Well pleased with logger-camps in 
Maine 
As where Milan's pale Duomo lies 

A stranded glacier on the plain, 
Its peaks and pinnacles of ice 
Melted in many a quaint device, 

And sees, above the city's din, 



TO THE MUSE. 



437 



Afar its silent Alpine kin : 

I track thee over carpets deep 

To wealth's and beauty's inmost keep ; 

Across the sand of bar-room floors 

'Mid the stale reek of boosing boors ; 

Where drowse the hay-field's fragrant 

heats, 
Or the flail-heart of Autumn beats ; 
I dog thee through the market's throngs 
To where the sea with myriad tongues 
Laps the green edges of the pier, 
And the tall ships that eastward steer, 
Curtsey their farewells to the town, 
O'er the curved distance lessening 

down ; 
I follow allwhere for thy sake. 
Touch thy robe's hem, but ne'er o'er- 

take, 
Find where, scarce yet unmoving, lies, 
Warm from thy limbs, thy last disguise ; 
But thou another shape nast donned," 
And lurest still just, just beyond ! 

But here a voice. I know not whence, 
Thrills clearly through my inward sense, 
Saying : " See where she sits at home 
While thou in search of her dost roam ! 
All summer long her ancient wheel 

Whirls humming by the open door, 
Or, when the hickory's social zeal 

Sets the wide chimney in a roar, 
Close-nestled by the tinkling hearth, 
It modulates the household mirth 
With that sweet serious undertone 
Of duty, music all her own ; 
Still as of old she sits and spins 
Our hopes, our sorrows, and our sins ; 
With equal care she twines the fates 
Of cottages and mighty states ; 
She spins the earth, the air, the sea, 
The maiden's unschooled fancy free, 
The boy's first love, the man's first grief, 
The budding and the fall o' the leaf; 



The piping west-wind's snowy care 
For her their cloudy fleeces spare, 
Or from the thorns of evil times 
She can glean wool to twist her rhymes ; 
Morning and noon and eve supply 
To her their fairest tints for dye, 
But ever through her twirling thread 
There spires one line of warmest red, 
Tinged from the homestead's genial 

heart, 
The stamp and warrant of her art ; 
With this Time's sickle she outwears, 
And blunts the Sisters' baffled shears. 

" Harass her not : thy heat and stir 
But greater coyness breed in her ; 
Yet thou mayst find, ere Age's frost, 
Thy long apprenticeship not lost, 
Learning at last that Stygian Fate 
Unbends to him that knows to wait. 
The Muse is womanish, nor deigns 
Her love to him that pules and plains ; 
With proud, averted face she stands 
To him that wooes with empty hands. 
Make thyself free of Manhood's guild ; 
Pull down thy barns and greater build ; 
The wood, the mountain, and the plain 
Wave breast-deep with the poet's grain ; 
Pluck thou the sunset's fruit of gold, 
Glean from the heavens and ocean old ; 
From fireside lone and trampling street 
Let thy life garner daily wheat ; 
The epic of a man rehearse, 
Be something better than thy verse ; 
Make thyself rich, and then the Muse 
Shall court thy precious interviews, 
Shall take thy head upon her knee, 
And such enchantment lilt to thee, 
That thou shalt hear the life-blood flow 
From farthest stars to grass-blades 

low, 
And find the Listener's science still 
Transcends the Singer's deepest skill ! " 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



Far through the memory shines a happy 
day, 

Cloudless of care, down-shod to every 
sense, 

And simply perfect from its own re- 
source, 

As to a bee the new campanula's 

Illuminate seclusion swung in air. 

Such days are not the prey of setting 
suns, 

Nor ever blurred with mist of after- 
thought ; 

Like words made magical by poets dead, 

Wherein the music of all meaning is 

The sense hath garnered or the soul di- 
vined, 

They mingle with our life's ethereal 
part, 

Sweetening and gathering sweetness 
evermore, 

By beauty's franchise disenthralled of 
time. 

I can recall, nay, they are present still, 

Parts of myself, the perfume of my 
mind, 

Days that seem farther off than Homer's 
now 

Ere yet the child had loudened to the 
boy, 

And I, recluse from playmates, found 
perforce 

Companionship in things that not de- 
nied 

Nor granted wholly ; as is Nature's 
wont, 

Who, safe in uncontaminate reserve, 

Lets us mistake our longing for her love, 

And mocks with various echo of our- 
selves. 

These first sweet frauds upon our con- 
sciousness, 

That blend the sensual with its imaged 
world, 



These virginal cognitions, gifts of morn, 
Ere life grow noisy, and slower-footed 

thought 
Can overtake the rapture of the sense, 
To thrust between ourselves and what 

we feel, 
Have something in them secretly divine. 
Vainly the eye, once schooled to serve 

the brain, 
With pains deliberate studies to renew 
The ideal vision : second-thoughts are 

prose ; 
For beauty's acme hath a term as brief 
As the wave's poise before it break in 

pearl. 
Our own breath dims the mirror of the 

sense, 
Looking too long and closely : at a flash 
We snatch the essential grace of mean- 
ing out, 
And that first passion beggars all be- 
hind, 
Heirs of a tamer transport prepossessed. 
Who, seeing once, has truly seen again 
The gray vague of unsympathizing sea 
That dragged his Fancy from her moor- 
ings back 
To shores inhospitable of eldest time, 
Till blank foreboding of earth-gendered 

powers, 
Pitiless seignories in the elements, 
Omnipotences blind that darkling 

smite, 
Misgave him, and repaganized the 

world ? 
Yet, by some subtler touch of sympathy, 
These primal apprehensions, dimly 

stirred, 
Perplex the eye with pictures from with- 
in. 
This hath made poets dream of lives 

foregone 
In worlds fantastical, more fair than 
ours; 



442 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



So Memory cheats us, glimpsing half- 
revealed. 

Even as I write she tries her wonted 
spell 

In that continuous redbreast boding 
rain : 

The bird I hear sings not from yonder 
elm ; 

But the flown ecstasy my childhood 
heard 

Is vocal in my mind, renewed by him, 

Haply made sweeter by the accumulate 
thrill 

That threads my undivided life and 
steals 

A pathos from the years and graves be- 
tween. 

I know not how it is with other men, 

Whom I but guess, deciphering my- 
self; 

For me, once felt is so felt nevermore. 

The fleeting relish at sensation's brim 

Had in it the best ferment of the wine. 

One spring 1 knew as never any since : 

All night the surges of the warm south- 
west 

Boomed intermittent through the shud- 
dering elms, 

And brought a morning from the Gulf 
adrift, 

Omnipotent with sunshine, whose quick 
charm 

Startled with crocuses the sullen turf 

And wiled the bluebird to his whiff of 
song : 

One summer hour abides, what time I 
perched, 

Dappled with noonday, under simmer- 
ing leaves, 

And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while 
aloof 

An oriole clattered and the robins 
shrilled, 

Denouncing me an alien and a thief: 

One morn of autumn lords it o'er the 
rest, 

When in the lane I watched the ash- 
leaves fall, 

Balancing softly earthward without 
wind, 

Or twirling with directer impulse down 

On those fallen yesterday, now barbed 
with frost, 



While I grew pensive with the pensive 

year : 
And once I learned how marvellous 

winter was, 
When past the fence-rails, downy-gray 

with rime, 
I creaked adventurous o'er the span- 
gled crust 
That made familiar fields seem far and 

strange 
As those stark wastes that whiten end- 
lessly 
In ghastly solitude about the pole, 
And gleam relentless to the unsetting 

sun : 
Instant the candid chambers of my brain 
Were painted with these sovran images ; 
And later visions seem but copies pale 
From those unfading frescos of the past, 
Which I, young savage, in my age of 

flint, 
Gazed at, and dimly felt a power in me 
Parted from Nature by the joy m her 
That doubtfully revealed me to myself. 
Thenceforward I must stand outside the 

gate; 
And paradise was paradise the more, 
Known once and barred against satiety. 

What we call Nature, all outside our- 
selves, 
Is but our own conceit of what we see, 
Our own reaction upon what we feel ; 
The world 's a woman to our shifting 

mood, 
Feeling with us, or making due pre- 
tence ; 
And therefore we the more persuade 

ourselves 
To make all things our thought's con- 
federates, 
Conniving with us in whate'er we dream. 
So when our Fancy seeks analogies, 
Though she have hidden what she after 

finds, 
She loves to cheat herself with feigned 

surprise. 
I find my own complexion everywhere : 
No rose, I doubt, was ever, like the first, 
A marvel to the bush it dawned upon, 
The rapture of its life made visible, 
The mystery of its yearning realized, 
As the first babe to the first woman 
born ; 






THE CATHEDRAL. 



443 



No falcon ever felt delight of wings 
As when, an eyas, from the stolid cliff 
Loosing himself, he followed his high 

heart 
To swim on sunshine, masterless as 

wind ; 
And I believe the brown earth takes 

delight 
In the new snowdrop looking back at her, 
To think that by some vernal alchemy 
It could transmute her darkness into 

pearl ; 
What is the buxom peony after that, 
With its coarse constancy of hoyden 

blush ? 
What the full summer to that wonder 



But, if in nothing else, in us there is 
A sense fastidious hardly reconciled 
To the poor makeshifts of life's scenery, 
Where the same slide must double all 

its parts. 
Shoved in for Tarsus and hitched back 

for Tyre. 
I blame not in the soul this daintiness, 
Rasher of surfeit than a humming-bird, 
In things indifferent by sense purveyed ; 
It argues her an immortality 
And dateless incomes of experience, 
This unthrift housekeeping that will 

not brook 
A dish warmed-over at the feast of life, 
And finds Twice stale, served with 

whatever sauce. 
Nor matters much how it may go w^ith 

me 
Who dwell in Grub .Street and am 

proud to drudge 
Where men, my betters, wet their crust 

with tears : 
Use can make sweet the peach's shady 

side, 
That only by reflection tastes of sun. 

But she, my Princess, who will some- 
times deign 

My garret to illumine till the walls, 

Narrow and dingy, scrawled with hack- 
neyed thought 

(Poor Richard slowly elbowing Plato 
out). 

Dilate and drape themselves with tapes- 
tries 



Nausikaa might "have stooped o'er, 

while, between, 
Mirrors, effaced in their own clearness, 

send 
Her only image on through deepening 

deeps 
With endless repercussion of delight, — 
Bringer of life, witching each sense to 

soul, 
That sometimes almost gives me to 

believe 
I might have been a poet, gives at least 
A brain desaxonized, an ear that makes 
Music where none is, and a keener pang 
Of exquisite surmise outieaping 

thought, — 
Her will I pamper in her luxury : 
No crumpled rose-leaf of too careless 

choice 
Shall bring a northern nightmare to her 

dreams, 
Vexing with sense of exile ; hers shall be 
The invitiate firstlings of experience, . 
Vibrations felt but once and felt life- 
long : 
O, more than half-way turn that Gre- 
cian front 
Upon me, while with self-rebuke I spell, 
On the plain fillet that confines thy 

hair 
In conscious bounds of seeming uncon- 

straint, 
The Naught in overplus, thy race's 

badge ! 

One feast for her I secretly designed 
In that Old World so strangely beautiful 
To us the disinherited of eld, — 
A day at Chartres, with no soul beside 
To roil with pedant prate my joy serene 
And make the minster shy of confi- 
dence, 
I went, and, with the Saxon's pious care, 
First ordered dinner at the pea-green 

inn, 
The flies and I its only customers, 
Till by and by there came two English- 
men, 
Who made me feel, in their engaging 

way, 
I was a poacher on their self-preserve, 
Intent constructively on lese-anglicism. 
To them (in those old razor-ridden 
days) 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



My beard translated me to hostile 

French ; 
So they, desiring guidance in the town, 
Half condescended to my baser sphere, 
And, clubbing in one mess their lack of 

phrase, 
Set their best man to grapple with the 

Gaul. 
" Esker vous ate anabitang? " he asked ; 
" I never ate one ; are they good ? " 

asked I ; 
Whereat they stared, then laughed, and 

we were friends, 
The seas, the wars, the centuries inter- 
posed, 
Abolished in the truce of common speech 
And mutual comfort of the mother- 
tongue. 
Like escaped convicts of Propriety, 
They furtively partook the joys of men, 
Glancing behind when buzzed some 
louder fly. 

Eluding these, I loitered through the 

town, 
With hope to take my minster una- 
wares 
In its grave solitude of memory. 
A pretty burgh, and such as Fancy loves 
For bygone grandeurs, faintly Tumorous 

now 
Upon the mind's horizon, as of storm 
Brooding its dreamy thunders far aloof, 
That mingle with our mood, but not 

disturb. 
Its once grim bulwarks, tamed to lovers' 

walks, 
Look down unwatchful on the sliding 

Eure, 
Whose listless leisure suits the quiet 

place, 
Lisping among his shallows homelike 

sounds 
At Concord and by Bankside heard 

before. 
Chance led me to a public pleasure- 
ground, 
Where I grew kindly with the merry 

groups, 
And blessed the Frenchman for his 

simple art 
Of being domestic in the light of day. 
His language has no word, we growl, 

for Home ; 



But he can find a fireside in the sun, 

Play with his child, make love, and 
shriek his mind, 

By throngs of strangers undisprivacied. 

He makes his life a public gallery, 

Nor feels himself till what he feels 
comes back 

In manifold reflection from without ; 

While we, each pore alert with con- 
sciousness, 

Hide our best selves as we had stolen 
them, 

And each bystander a detective were, 

Keen-eyed for every chink of undisguise. 

So, musing o'er the problem which was 

best, — 
A life wide-windowed, shining all 

abroad, 
Or curtains drawn to shield from sight 

profane 
The rites we pay to the mysterious I, — 
With outward senses furloughed and 

head bowed 
I followed some fine instinct in my 

feet, 
Till, to unbend me from the loom of 

thought, 
Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes 
Confronted with the minster's vast re- 
pose. 
Silent and gray as forest-leaguered cliff 
Left inland by the ocean's slow retreat, 
That hears afar the breeze-borne rote, 

and longs, 
Remembering shocks of surf that clomb 

and fell, 
Spume-sliding cjown the baffled decu- 
man, 
It rose before me, patiently remote 
From the great tides of life it breasted 

once, 
Hearing the noise of men as in a dream. 
I stood before the triple northern port, 
Where dedicated shapes of saints and 

kings, 
Stern faces bleared with immemorial 

watch, 
Looked down benignly grave and 

seemed to say, 
Ye come and go incessant ; ive remain 
Safe in thehalloived quiets of the past ; 
Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot, 
Of faith so nobly realized as this. 






THE CATHEDRAL. 



445 



I seem to have heard it said by learned 

folk 
Who drench you with aesthetics till you 

feel 
As if all beauty were a ghastly bore, 
The faucet to let loose a wash of words, 
That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore 

worse ; 
But, being convinced by much experi- 
ment 
How little inventiveness there is in 

man, 
Grave copier of copies, I give thanks 
For a new relish, careless to inquire 
My pleasure's pedigree, if so it please, 
Nobly, I mean, nor renegade to art. 
The Grecian gluts me with its perfect- 

ness, 
Unanswerable as Euclid,self-contained, 
The one thing finished in this hasty 

world, 
Forever finished, though the barbarous 

pit, 
Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout 
As if a miracle could be encored. 
But ah ! this other, this that never ends, 
Still climbing, luring fancy still to climb, 
As full of morals half-divined as life, 
Graceful, grotesque, with ever new 

surprise 
Of hazardous caprices sure to please, 
Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern, 
Imagination's very self in stone ! 
With one long sigh of infinite release 
From pedantries past, present, or to 

come, 
I looked, and owned myself a happy 

Goth. , 

Your blood is mine, ye architects of 

dream, 
Builders of aspiration incomplete, 
So more consummate, souls self-confi- 
dent, 
Who felt your own thought worthy of 

record 
In monumental pomp ! NoGreciandrop 
Rebukes these veins that leap with 

kindred thrill, 
After long exile, to the mother-tongue. 

Ovid in Pontus, puling for his Rome 
Of men in virile and disnatured dames 
That poison sucked from the Attic 
bloom decayed, 



Shrank with a shudder from the blue- 
eyed race 
Whose force rough-handed should re- 
new the world, 
And from the dregs of Romulus express 
Such wine as Dante poured, or he who 

blew 
Roland's vain blast, or sang the Cam- 

peador 
In verse that clanks like armor in the 

charge, — 
Homeric juice, if brimmed in Odin's 

horn. 
And they could build, if not the col- 
umned fane 
That from the height gleamed seaward 

many-hued, 
Something more friendly with their 

ruder skies : 
The gray spire, molten now in driving 

mist, 
Now lulled with the incommunicable 

blue ; 
The carvings touched to meanings new 

with snow, 
Or commented with fleeting grace of 

shade ; 
The statues, motley as man's memory, 
Partial as that, so mixed of true and 

false, 
History and legend meeting with a kiss 
Across this bound-mark where their 

realms confine ; 
The painted windows, frecking gloom 

with glow, 
Dusking the sunshine which they seem 

to cheer, 
Meet symbol of the senses and the soul ; 
And the whole pile, grim with the 

Northman's thought 
Of life and death, and doom, life's equal 

fee, — ■ 
These were before me : and I gazed 

abashed, 
Child of an age that lectures,not creates, 
Plastering our swallow - nests on the 

awful Past, 
And twittering round the work of larger 

men, 
As we had builded what we but deface. 
Far up the great bells wallowed in 

delight, 
Tossing their clangors o'er the heedless 

town, 



446 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



To call the worshippers who never 

came, 
Or women mostly, in loath twos and 

threes. 
I entered, reverent of whatever shrine 
Guards piety and solace for my kind 
Or gives the soul a moment's truce of 

God, 
And shared decorous in the ancient rite 
My sterner fathers held idolatrous. 
The service over, I was tranced in 

thought : 
Solemn the deepening vaults, and most 

to me, 
Fresh from the fragile realm of deal and 

paint, 
Or brick mock-pious with a marble 

front ; 
Solemn the lift of high-embowered roof, 
The clustered stems that spread in 

boughs disleaved, 
Through which the organ blew a dream 

of storm, — 
Though not more potent to sublime 

with awe 
And shut the heart up in tranquillity, 
Than aisles to me familiar that o'erarch 
The conscious silences of brooding 

woods, 
Centurial shadows, cloisters of the elk : 
Yet here was sense of undefined regret, 
Irreparable loss, uncertain what : 
Was all this grandeur but anachro- 
nism, — 
A shell divorced of its informing life, 
Where the priest housed him like a 

hermit-crab, 
An alien to that faith of elder days 
That gathered round it this fair shape 

of stone ? 
Is old Religion but a spectre now, 
Haunting the solitude of darkened 

minds, 
Mocked cut of memory by the sceptic 

day ? 
Is there no corner safe from peeping 

Doubt, 
Since Gutenberg made thought cosmop- 
olite 
And stretched electric threads from 

mind to mind? 
Nay, did Faith build this wonder ? or 

did Fear, 
That makes a fetish and misnames it God 



(Blockish or metaphysic, matters not), 

Contrive this coop to shut its tyrant in, 

Appeased with playthings, that he might 

not harm ? 

I turned and saw a beldame on her 
knees ; 

With eyes astray, she told mechanic 
beads 

Before some shrine of saintly woman- 
hood, 

Bribed intercessor with the far-off 
Judge : 

Such my first thought, by kindlier soon 
rebuked, 

Pleading for whatsoever touches life 

With upward impulse : be He nowhere 
else, 

God is in all that liberates and lifts, 

In all that humbles, sweetens, and con- 
soles : 

Blessed the natures shored on every side 

With landmarks of hereditary thought ! 

Thrice happy they that wander not life- 
long 

Beyond near succor of the household 
faith, 

The guarded fold that shelters not con- 
fines ! 

Their steps find patience in familiar 
paths, 

Printed with hope by loved feet gone 
before 

Of parent, child, or lover, glorified 

By simple magic of dividing Time. 

My lids were moistened as the woman 
knelt, 

And — was it will, or some vibration 
faint 

Of sacred Nature, deeper than the 
will? — 

My heart occultly felt itself in hers, 

Through mutual intercession gently 
leagued. 

Or was it not mere sympathy of brain ? 
A sweetness intellectually conceived 
In simpler creeds to me impossible ? 
A juggle of that pity for ourselves 
In others, which puts on such pretty 

masks 
And snares self-love with bait of charity? 
Something of all it might be, or of none: 
Yet for a moment I was snatched away 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



447 



And had the evidence of things not 

seen ; 
For one rapt moment ; then it all came 

back, 
This age that blots out life with ques- 
tion-marks, 
This nineteenth century with its knife 

and glass 
That make thought physical, and thrust 

far off 
The Heaven, so neighborly with man 

of old, 
To voids sparse-sown with alienated 

stars. 

*T is irrecoverable, that ancient faith, 
Homely and wholesome, suited to the 

time, 
With rod or candy for child-minded 

men : 
No theologic tube, with lens on lens 
Of syllogism transparent, brings it 

near, — 
At best resolving some new nebula, 
Or blurring some fixed-star of hope to 

mist. 
Science was Faith once ; Faith were 

Science now, 
Would she but lay her bow and arrows 

by 
And arm her with the weapons of the 

time. 
Nothing that keeps thought out is safe 

from thought. 
For there 's no virgin-fort but self- 
respect, 
And Truth defensive hath lost hold on 

God. 
Shall we treat Him as if He were a 

child 
That knew not His own purpose? nor 

dare trust 
The Rock of Ages to their chemic tests, 
Lest some day the all-sustaining base 

divine 
Should fail from under us, dissolved in 

gas? 
The armed eye that with a glance dis- 
cerns 
In a dry blood-speck between ox and 

man, 
Stares helpless at this miracle called life, 
This shaping potency behind the egg, 
This circulation swift of deity* 



Where suns and systems inconspicuous 
float 

As the poor blood-disks in our mortal 
veins. 

Each age must worship its own thought 
of God, 

More or less earthy, clarifying still 

With subsidence continuous of the 
dregs ; 

Nor saint nor sage could fix immutably 

The fluent image of the unstable Best, 

Still changing in their very hands that 
wrought : 

To-day's eternal truth To-morrow 
proved 

Frail as frost-landscapes on a window- 
pane. 

Meanwhile Thou smiledst, inaccessible, 

At Thought's own substance made a 
cage for Thought, 

And Truth locked fast with her own 
master-key ; 

Nor didst Thou reck what image man 
might make 

Of his own shadow on the flowing 
world ; 

The climbing instinct was enough for 
Thee. 

Or wast Thou, then, an ebbing tide 
that left 

Strewn with dead miracle those eldest 
shores, 

For men to dry, and dryly lecture on, 

Thyself thenceforth incapable of flood? 

Idle who hopes with prophets 'to be 
snatched 

By virtue in their mantles left below ; 

Shall the soul live on other men's re- 
port, 

Herself a pleasing fable of herself? 

Man cannot be God'soutlaw ifhe would, 

Nor so abscond him in the caves of 
sense 

But Nature still shall search some crev- 
ice out 

With messages of splendor from that 
Source 

Which, dive he, soar he, baffles still and 
lures. 

This life were brutish did we not some- 
times 

Have intimation clear of wider scope, 

Hints of occasion infinite, to keep 

The soul alert with noble discontent 



448 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



And onward yearnings of unstilled 

desire ; 
Fruitless, except we now and then 

divined 
A mystery of Purpose, gleaming 

through 
The secular confusions of the world. 
Whose will we darkly accomplish, 

doing ours. 
No man can think nor in himself 

perceive, 
Sometimes at waking, in the street 

sometimes, 
Or on the hillside, always unforewarned, 
A grace of being, finer than himself, 
That beckonsand is gone, — a larger life 
Upon his own impinging, with swift 

glimpse 
Of spacious circles luminous with mind, 
To which the ethereal substance of his 

own 
Seems but gross cloud to make that 

visible, 
Touched to a sudden glory round the 

edge. 
Who that hath known these visitations 

fleet 
Would strive to make them trite and 

ritual ? 
I, that still pray at morning and at eve, 
Loving those roots that feed us from 

the past, 
And prizing more than Plato things I 

learned 
At that best academe, a mother's knee, 
Thrice in my life perhaps have truly 

prayed, 
Thrice, stirred below my conscious self, 

have felt 
That perfect disenthralment which is 

God; 
Nor know I which to hold worst 

enemy, — 
Him who on speculation's windy waste 
Would turn me loose, stript of the rai- 
ment warm 
By Faith contrived against our naked- 
ness, 
Or him who, cruel-kind, would fain 

obscure, 
With painted saints and paraphrase of 

God, 
The soul's east-window of divine sur- 
prise. 



Where others worship I but look and 

long; 
For, though not recreant to my fathers* 

faith, ' 

Its forms to me are weariness, and most 
That drony vacuum of compulsory 

prayer, 
Still pumping phrases for the Ineffable, 
Though all the valves of memory gasp 

and wheeze. 
Words that have drawn transcendent 

meanings up 
From the best passion of all bygone 

time, 
Steeped through with tears of triumph 

and remorse, 
Sweet with all sainthood, cleansed in 

martyr-fires, 
Can they, so consecrate and so inspired, 
By repetition wane to vexing wind ? 
Alas ! we cannot draw habitual breath 
In the thin air of life's supremer heights, 
We cannot make each meal a sacra- 
ment, 
Nor with our tailors be disbodied 

souls, — 
We men, too conscious of earth's 

comedy, 
Who see two sides, with our posed 

selves debate, 
And only for great stakes can be sub- 
lime ! 
Let us be thankful when, as I do here, 
We can read Bethel on a pile of stones, 
And, seeing where God has been, trust 

in Him. 

Brave Peter Fischer there in Nurem- 

b er & 
Moulding Saint Sebald's miracles in 

bronze, 
Put saint and stander-by in that quaint 

garb 
Familiar to him in his daily walk, 
Not doubting God could grant a 

miracle 
Then and in Nuremberg, if so He 

would ; 
But never artist for three hundred years 
Hath dared the contradiction ludicrous 
Of supernatural in modern clothes. 
Perhaps the deeper faith that is to come 
Will see God rather in the strenuous 

doubt, 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



449 



Than in the creed held as an infant's 

hand 
Holds purposeless whatso is placed 

therein. 

Say it is drift, not progress, none the 
less, 

With the old sextant of the fathers' 
creed, 

We shape our courses by new-risen 
stars, 

And, still lip-loyal to what once was 
truth, 

Smuggle new meanings under ancient 
names, 

Unconscious perverts of the Jesuit, 
Time. 

Change is the mask that all Continu- 
ance wears 

To keep us youngsters harmlessly 
amused ; 

Meanwhile some ailing or more watch- 
ful child, 

Sitting apart, sees the old eyes gleam 
out, 

Stern, and yet soft with humorous pity 
too. 

Whilere, men burnt men for a doubtful 
point, 

As if the mind were quenchable with 
fire, 

And Faith danced round them with her 
war-paint on, 

Devoutly savage as an Iroquois ; 

Now Calvin and Servetus at one board 

Snuff in grave sympathy a milder roast, 

And o'er their claret settle Comte un- 
read. 

Fagot and stake were desperately sin- 
cere : 

Our cooler martyrdoms are done in 
types ; 

And flames that shine in controversial 
eyes 

Burn out no brains but his who kindles 
them. 

This is no age to get cathedrals built : 

Did God, then, wait for one in Beth- 
lehem ? 

Worst is not yet : lo, where his coming 
looms, 

Of Earth's anarchic children latest 
born, 

Democracy, a Titan who hath learned 
29 



To laugh at Jove's old-fashioned thun- 
derbolts, — 
Could he not also forge them, if he 

would ? 
He, better skilled, with solvents merci- 
less, 
Loosened in air and borne on every 

wind, 
Saps unperceived : the calm Olympian 

height 
Of ancient order feels its bases yield, 
And pale gods glance for help to gods 

as pale. 
What will be left of good or worshipful, 
Of spiritual secrets, mysteries, 
Of fair religion's guarded heritage, 
Heirlooms of soul, passed downward 

un profaned 
From eldest Ind ? This Western giant 

coarse, 
Scorning refinements which he lacks 

himself, 
Loves not nor heeds the ancestral 

hierarchies, 
Each rank dependent on the next 

above 
In orderly gradation fixed as fate. 
King by mere manhood, nor allowing 

aught 
Of holier unction than the sweat of toil ; 
In his own strength sufficient ; called 

to solve, 
On the rough edges of society, 
Problems long sacred to the choicer 

few, 
And improvise what elsewhere men 

receive 
As gifts of deity ; tough foundling 

reared 
Where every man 's his own Melchise- 

dek, 
How make him reverent of a King of 

kings ? 
Or Judge self-made, executor of laws 
By him not first discussed and voted 

on? 
For him no tree of knowledge is forbid, 
Or sweeter if forbid. How save the ark, 
Or holy of holies, unprofaned a day 
From his unscrupulous curiosity 
That handles everything as if to buy, 
Tossing aside what fabrics delicate 
Suit not the rough-and-tumble of his 

ways? 



45° 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



What hope for those fine-nerved hu- 
manities 

That made earth gracious once with 
gentler arts, 

Now the rude hands have caught the 
trick of thought 

And claim an equal suffrage with the 
brain ? 

The born disciple of an elder time, 
(To me sufficient, friendlier than the 

new,) 
Who in my blood feel motions of the 

Past, 
I thank benignant nature most for 

this, — 
A force o'f sympathy, or call it lack 
Of character firm-planted, loosing me 
From the pent chamber of habitual self 
To dwell enlarged in alien modes of 

thought, 
Haply distasteful, wholesomer for that, 
And through imagination to possess, 
As they were mine, the lives of other 

men. 
This growth original of virgin soil, 
By fascination felt in opposites, 
Pleases and shocks, entices and per- 
turbs. 
In this brown-fisted rough, this shirt- 
sleeved Cid, 
This backwoods Charlemagne of em- 
pires new, 
Whose blundering heel instinctively 

finds out 
The goutier foot of speechless dignities, 
Who, meeting Caesar's self, would slap 

his back, 
Call him " Old Horse," and challenge 

to a drink, 
My lungs draw braver air, my breast 

dilates 
With ampler manhood, and I front 

both worlds, 
Of sense and spirit, as my natural fiefs, 
To shape and then reshape them as I 

will. 
It was the first man's charter ; why 

not mine? 
How forfeit? when deposed in other 
hands ? 

Thou shudder'st, Ovid ? Dost in him 
forebode 



A new avatar of the large-limbed Goth, 

To break, or seem to break, tradition's 
clew, 

And chase to dreamland back thy gods 
dethroned? 

I think man's soul dwells nearer to the 
east, 

Nearer to morning's fountains than the 
sun ; 

Herself the source whence all tradition 
sprang, 

Herself at once both labyrinth and 
clew. 

The miracle fades out of history, 

But faith and wonder and the primal 
earth 

Are born into the world with every 
child. 

Shall this self-maker with the prying 
eyes, 

This creature disenchanted of respect 

By the New World's new fiend, Pub- 
licity, 

Whose testing thumb leaves every- 
where its smutch, 

Not one day feel within himself the 
need 

Of loyalty to better than himself, 

That shall ennoble him with the up- 
ward look ? 

Shall he not catch the Voice that wan- 
ders earth, 

With spiritual summons, dreamed or 
heard, 

As sometimes, just ere sleep seals up 
the sense, 

We hear our Mother call from deeps of 
time, 

And, waking, find it vision, — none 
the less 

The benediction bides, old skies return, 

And that unreal thing, pre-eminent, 

Makes air and dream of all we see and 
feel? 

Shall he divine no strength unmade of 
votes, 

Inward, impregnable, found soon as 
sought, 

Not cognizable of sense, o'er sense 
supreme ? 

His holy places may not be of stone, 

Nor made with hands, yet fairer far 
than aught 

By artist feigned or pious ardor reared, 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



4S* 



Fit altars for who guards inviolate 
God's chosen seat, the sacred form of 

man. 
Doubtless his church will be no hospital 
For superannuate forms and mumping 

shams, 
No parlor where men issue policies 
Of life-assurance on the Eternal Mind, 
Nor his religion but an ambulance 
To fetch life's wounded and malinger- 
ers in, 
Scorned by the strong; yet he, uncon- 
scious heir 
To the influence sweet of Athens and 

of Rome, 
And old Judsea's gift of secret fire, 
Spite of himself shall surely learn to 

know 
And worship some ideal of himself, 
Some divine thing, large-hearted, 

brotherly, 
Not nice in trifles, a soft creditor, 
Pleased with his world, and hating only 

cant. 
And, if his Church be doubtful, it is sure 
That, in a world, made for whatever 

else, 
Not made for mere enjoyment, — in a 

world 
Of toil but half-requited, or, at best, 
Paid in some futile currency of 

breath, — 
A world of incompleteness, sorrow swift 
And consolation laggard, whatsoe'er 
The form of building or the creed pro- 
fessed, 
The Cross, bold type of shame to hom- 
age turned, 
Of an unfinished life that sways the 

world, 
Shall tower as sovereign emblem over 
all. 

The kobold Thought moves with us 
when we shift 

Our dwelling to escape him ; perched 
aloft 

On the first load of household-stuff he 
went ; 

For, where the mind goes, goes old fur- 
niture. 

I, who to Chartres came to feed my 
eye 

And give to Fancy one clear holiday, 



Scarce saw the minster for the thoughts 

it stirred 
Buzzing o'er past and future with vain 

quest. 
Here once there stood a homely wood- 
en church, 
Which slow devotion nobly changed 

for this 
That echoes vaguely to my modern 

steps. 
By suffrage universal it was built, 
As practised then, for all the country 

came 
From far as Rouen, to give votes for 

God, 
Each vote a block of stone securely laid 
Obedient to the master's deep-mused 

plan. 
Will what our ballots rear, responsible 
To no grave forethought, stand so long 

as this, — 
Delight like this the eye of after days 
Brightening with pride that here, at 

least, were men 
Who meant and did the noblest thing 

they knew ? 
Can our religion cope with deeds like 

this? 
We, too, build Gothic contract-shams, 

because 
Our deacons have discovered that it 

pays, 
And pews sell better under vaulted 

roofs 
Of plaster painted like an Indian squaw. 
Shall not that Western Goth, of whom 

we spoke, 
So fiercely practical, so keen of eye, 
Find out, some day, that nothing pays 

but God, 
Served whether on the smoke-shut 

battle-field, 
In work obscure done honestly, or vote 
For truth unpopular, or faith maintained 
To ruinous convictions, or good deeds 
Wrought for good' s sake, mindless of 

heaven or hell . 
Shall he not learn that all prosperity, 
Whose bases stretch not deeper than 

the sense, 
Is but a trick of this world's atmosphere, 
A desert-born mirage of spire and dome, 
Or find too late, the Past's long lesson 

missed, • 



452 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



That dust the prophets shake from off 

their feet 
Grows heavy to drag down both tower 

and wall ? 
I know not ; but, sustained by sure 

belief 
That man still rises level with the 

height 
Of noblest opportunities, or makes 
Such, if the time supply not, I can 

wait. 
I gaze round on the windows, pride of 

France, 
Each the bright gift of some mechanic 

guild 
Who loved their city and thought gold 

well spent 
To make her beautiful with piety ; 
I pause, transfigured by some stripe of 

bloom, 
And my mind throngs with shining 

auguries, 
Circle on circle, bright as seraphim, 
With golden trumpets,silent, that await 
The signal to blow news of good to 

men. 

Then the revulsion came that always 
comes 

After these dizzy elations of the mind : 

And with a passionate pang of doubt I 
cried, 

"O mountain-born, sweet with snow- 
filtered air 

From uncontaminate wells of ether 
drawn 

And never-broken secrecies of sky, 

Freedom, with anguish won, misprized 
till lost, 

They keep thee not who from thy sacred 
eyes 

Catch the consuming 'lust of sensual 
good 

And the brute's license of unfettered 
will. 

Far from the popular shout and venal 
breath 

Of Cleon blowing the mob's baser mind 

To bubbles of wind-piloted conceit. 

Thou shrinkest, gathering up thy skirts, 
to hide 

In fortresses of solitary thought 

And private virtue strong in self-re- 
straint* 



Must we too forfeit thee misunderstood, 
Content with names, nor inly wise to 

know 
That best things perish of their own 

excess, 
And quality o'er-driven becomes defect? 
Nay, is it thou indeed that we have 

glimpsed, 
Or rather such illusion as of old 
Through Athens glided menadlike and 

Rome, 
A shape of vapor, mother of vain dreams 
And mutinous traditions, specious plea 
Of the glaived tyrant and long-memoried 

priest?" 

I walked forth saddened; for all 

thought is sad, 
And leaves a bitterish savor in the 

brain, — 
Tonic, it may be, not delectable, — 
And turned, reluctant, for a parting 

look 
At those old weather-pitted images 
Of bygone struggle, now so sternly 

calm. 
About their shoulders sparrows had 

built nests, 
And fluttered, chirping, from gray 

perch to perch, 
Now on a mitre poising, now a crown, 
Irreverently happy. While I thought 
How confident they were, what careless 

hearts 
Flew on those lightsome wings and 

shared the sun, 
A larger shadow crossed ; and, looking 

U P» 

I saw where, nesting in the hoary 
towers, 

The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noise- 
less air, 

With sidelong head that watched the 
joy below, 

Grim Norman baron o'er this clan of 
Kelts. 

Enduring Nature, force conservative, 

Indifferent to our noisy whims ! Men 
prate 

Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered 

On level with the dullest, and expect 

(Sick of no worse distemper than them- 
selves) 

A wondrous cure-all in equality ; 



THE CATHEDRAL. 



453 



Ttiey /eason that To-morrow must be 
wise 

Because To-day was not, nor Yester- 
day, 

As if good days were shapen of them- 
selves, 

Not of the very lifeblood of men's 
souls ; 

Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturb- 
able, 

Thou quietly complet'st thy syllogism, 

And from the premise sparrow here 
below 

Draw'st sure conclusion of the hawk 
above, 

Pleased with the soft-billed songster, 
pleased no less 

With the fierce beak ofnatures aquiline. 

Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid 

away 
In the Past's valley of Avilion, 
Haply, like Arthur, till thy wound be 

healed, 
Then to reclaim the sword and crown 

, again ! 
Thrice beautiful to us ; perchance less 

fair 
To who possessed thee, as a mountain 

seems 
To dwellers round its bases but a heap 
Of barren obstacle that lairs the storm 
And the avalanche's silent bolt holds 

back 
Leashed with a hair, — meanwhile 

some far-off clown, 
Hereditary delver of the plain, 
Sees it an unmoved vision of repose, 
Nest of the morning, and conjectures 

there 
The dance of streams to idle shepherds' 

pipes, 
And fairer habitations softly hung 
On breezy slopes, or hid in valleys cool, 
For happier men. No mortal ever 

dreams 
That the scant isthmus he encamps 

upon 
Between two oceans, one, the Stormy, 

passed, 



And one, the Peaceful, yet to venture 

on, 
Has been that future whereto prophets 

yearned 
For the fulfilment of Earth's cheated 

hope. 
Shall be that past which nerveless 

poets moan 
As the lost opportunity of song. 

Power, more near my life than life 

itself 
(Or what seems life to us in sense 

immured), 
Even as the roots, shut in the darksome 

earth, 
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and 

conceive 
Of sunshine and wide air and winged 

things 
By sympathy of nature, so do I 
Have evidence of Thee so far above, 
Yet in and of me ! Rather Thou the 

root 
Invisibly sustaining, hid in light, 
Not darkness, or in darkness made by 

us. 
If sometimes I must hear good men 

debate 
Of other witness of Thyself than Thou, 
As if there needed any help of ours 
To nurse Thy flickering life, that else 

must cease, 
Blown out, as 't were a candle, by men's 

breath, 
My soul shall not be taken in their snare, 
To change her inward surety for their 

doubt 
Muffled from sight in formal robes of 

proof: 
While she can only feel herself through 

Thee, 

1 fear not Thy withdrawal ; more I fear, 
Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked 

with dreams 
Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, 

Thou, 
Walking Thy garden still, commun'st 

with men, 
Missed in the commonplace of miracle. 



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QfH 
Mrs. Ada Spinks 
Aug. 16 1934 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



COMPLETE EDITION. 



MACMILLAN AND CO, 

1873. 






LONDON : 
R. CLAV, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, 
BREAD STREET HILL. 



Girt 

Mrs. Ada Spinks 
AUE. 16 1934 









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